Epigrams  Abound  in  " Memory's 

Potlatches,"  by  Mrs,  Wm. 

Beckman, 


IS  FULL  OF  WITTY  FLASHES 


Author     Is     Sacramentan     Who 

Gives  Results  of  Her 

Observations, 


-  Mrs.    ."Willia.-  icra- 

mento,  one  of  the  best-known  society 
leadens  of  Call  the  mill- 

ionaire president  of  one  of  the  big 
(Sacramento  banks,  has  just  published 
a  book  into  which  she  has  put  the 
distilled  and  concentrated  essence  of 
her  wit  and  wisdom. 

Keeping  aliv.  e  for  let- 

ters and  for  al 
Itual   interests   in   tin 
(social  life, 

life,  a  sort  "or,  in 

the    reflection:  th 

pie  she- has  known  and  the  events  in 
which  sh  are 

able  to  her  fr 

Probi 

California  is  better 
iBeckman.      For    nia 
pided    in    the    Golclci 
Sacramento,   in   the    t'jvys   o 
as   the   caravF 
of  prominent  pu 
phown    in    her 
lose  her  < 
the  study 


11Z- 

than   Mrs. 

s  she  ro- 
i,  in 
;lory 


ATJTHOU    OF    OTIIEK   BOO 

Mrs.  Bee)- 
**Backshee;; 
ted  From  t  * 

From    her    bo 
Bketchefs,    "Me- 
following  epi; 
"Politeness 
been    said    rne? 
they  would  bow  to  \ 
I  Ing'  on   a  line.      PC- 
'  fashion   now,    hence    polite 
Ing  out  for  lack  of 

"Fidelity    to    < 
falysis   of   the 
i  a  tightening  of 
hearts   are   more   life 
always  on  the  bound  or  re 
"Traditionally    a   woman 
out  of  a  bone.     If  so,  why  i 
the  weaker  sex,  when  mai 
out  of  the  dust?" 
WTKEN    EVE    DROPPED    r 
"Human    nature — or    wo: 
» — is   pretty  much   the   sam 
propped  the  core  of  her  pii 
hurriedly  to  the  fig  tree  fc 
fashion  in  pinafores." 

"  'Put  not  new  wine  int< 
pet  how  many  fools  there 
pld  wine  into  new  skins  \ 
disastrous  effects." 

"Some  women  cry  'sar 
themselves,  and  when  safe 
ttrill  betray  and  flay  thos 
aot  been  successful  as  th< 
"It  is  the  infinite  expec 
ure  the  charm  and  joy  of 
tt  is,  alas!  the  limitations 
terror  of  age." 

"Some  people  act  like  n 
ers    on    our    nerves,    and 
pne's  patience  as  rapidly  a 
froes   the   nutmeg." 


PC 


WRS.  WILLIAAt  BEEKrt, 


'«  »'/ 

•A  *'• 


MEMORY S 
POTLATCHES 

BY 
MRS.  WILLIAM  BECKMAN 


Illustrations  by  Mary  Crete  Crouch 
Press  of  Jo  Anderson,  Sacramento,  Cal. 


^WL^'^%       Vr 
*&&+*&*& 

«'\  Jnf^>      ^*&*A 


MEMORY'S   POTLATCHES 

By 
MRS.  WILLIAM  BECKMAN 

Author  of 
"BACKSHEESH" 

"UNCLEAN  AND  SPOTTED  FROM  THE  WORLD" 

"BECKIE'S  BOOK  OF  BASTINGS" 

ETC.,  ETC. 


JWemorp'a; 

3n  gibing  potlatcfjes,  tfje 
3fnbian*  tfjinfe  tfcat  foob  anb 
raiment  giben  atoap  are  for 
ttie  benefit  of  tfje  beab,  tftat 
tftep  map  not  groto  coib  anb 
tfjrousfjout  Ctermtp* 
potlatcfj  gifts;  from  tfje 
s(tore{)0tts(e  of  memorp  are  for 
tfte  libing,  toitl)  tfie  dope  tfjat 
tftep  map  gibe  f oob  for  tfjougftt, 
anb  lighten  fcour*  for  fjeartt 
tfjat  are  a-fjungereb  for  J3?ome= 
tiling  tlyat  toill  bibert  anb  sfat= 
igfp  tolfile  libing.  ®Ije  beab 
neeb  nothing. 


274471. 


COPYRIGHT   1913 

BY 

MRS.     WILLIAM     BECKMAN 
SACRAMENTO.  CALIFORNIA 

PUBLISHED   BY 

JO    ANDERSON 

SACRAMENTO.  CALIFORNIA 


When  the  minutes  of  our  lives  are  read  the 
errors  and  omissions  will  stand  out  as  do  the  high 
lights  in  paintings.  Even  as  they  do  in  life's 
pictures  accentuating,  and  in  a  way  showing  they 
help  in  detail.  And  God,  the  great  Judge,  will 
know  and  understand,  and  in  the  summing  up  of 
mortal  errors  and  omissions  no  objections  will  be 
offered. 


Memories. 

Memories  are  but  shadows.  Only  one  name  in 
millions  will  be  recalled  after  the  lapse  of  cen- 
turies. The  balm  to  the  soul  and  the  solace  should 
be  to  live  so  that  we  may  not  be  forgotten  while 
yet  alive.  Remembrance  after  death  counts  as 
nothing  to  me.  But  to  feel  that  those  who  knew 
me  long  ago,  who  knew  me  when  I  felt  that  I  was 
born  in  the  dawn  of  the  world  everything  seemed 
so  young  and  beautiful,  might  forget  the  world 
changed  and  worn,  and  I  —  while  never  forgetting 
the  loved,  through  all  the  dead  years  —  might  meet 
in  that  "  otherwhere  "  only  strangers.  This  to  me 
is  the  dread  of  death. 

*      * 

Why  should  one  be  content  to  sit  in  the  valley 
of  ignorance  rather  than  attain  the  hill-crests  of 
wisdom  where  happiness  is  found,  and  the  winds 
of  contentment  come  in  joyous  exultant  gusts,  or 
in  tender,  sighing  lullabies  that  bless  the  way- 
farer. 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Love,  like  sleep,  throws  off  the  brake  and  life 
becomes  a  dream  without  rule  or  reason.  Just  a 
pleasing,  joyful  mirage  rising  out  of  barren  facts 
and  sordid  realities.  But  it  is  worth  while  to  have 
lived  if  only  for  this.  Even  if  it  be  like  a  mirage, 
nothing  real  or  stable  about  it,  the  beauty  and  joy 
of  love  is  about  all  that  makes  life  endurable,  and 
the  heart  once  penetrated  with  the  ecstasy  of  love 
finds,  however  hard  the  road,  that  it  is  worth 
while. 


Change. 

It  means  much  to  most  mortals  to  get  away 
from  the  everyday  sameness  of  one's  life,  and  go 
where  there  is  variety — rubbing  up  against  the 
edges  of  the  world  and  incidentally  freshening 
one's  viewpoint  of  life,  while  cfoming  in  contact 
with  new  people,  new  things,  while  the  hill-crest 
breezes  fresh  and  strong,  blow  the  barnacles  from 
one's  mind  and  heart. 


The  tail-feathers  of  my  imaginations  are  not 
trailing  in  the  dust,  but,  like  the  irridescent, 
glorious  shimmer  and  sheen  of  the  peacock's  har- 
mony and  brilliancy,  my  plumes  are  quivering  and 
revelling  in  the  domain  of  fancy.  What  exquisite 
delight  comes  with  the  beauty  of  waves  and  dips 
of  my  flight  among  the  realities  and  wonders  of 
this  dear  old  world,  and  the  rapture  of  the  soul 
attuned  to  the  harmony  and  undeviating  stead- 
fastness of  our  sphere. 

3«£ 


MEMORY       S         PQTLATCHES 

Do  we  not  all  feel  at  some  time  a  very  shuttle 
in  Fate's  loom?  Sent  hither  and  back  by  relent- 
less, unseen  hands,  powerless  to  stop  the  never- 
ending  sameness  of  weaving  and  filling  life's  web 
and  woof.  Mixing  the  rainbow  tints  with  threads 
of  gloom  and  sorrow,  threads  of  love,  nnusic, 
laughter  and  song  —  woven  while  the  heart  pounds 
the  strange  material  of  which  life  is  made  into 
shape  —  as  the  years  come  and  go.  Few  if  any  of 
us  weave  life's  web  according  to  our  desires,  in- 
exorable laws  hidden  and  nameless  ass  the  cause 
that  makes  us  what  we  are,  in  this  world,  urge  us 
against  our  wishes  to  do  other  than  we  do  —  life's 
unwilling,  helpless  ones. 

*      * 

Flattery  is  good  and  helpful  if  administered 
properly,  but  I  have  had  careless,  extravagant 
people  mistake  me  for  a  piece  of  toast,  and  lay  it 
on  as  thick  as  butter.  I  am  not  fond  of  too  much 
of  either. 


Prudes  and  Hypocrites. 

Outward  decency  forsooth,  with  its  face 
washed  and  body  unclean!  Prudes  and  whited 
sepulchres  who  are  shocked  at  the  nude  may  be 
encased  from  head  to  toe,  and  innocence  be  un- 
covered. The  maid  or  matron  in  slit  skirt  is  not 
the  surest  means  of  preventing  street  corner 
morals  from  going  to  seed.  A  thoughtful  mind 
will  find  far  more  of  the  suggestive  and  obscene 
in  the  dress  of  today  than  could  be  imagined  in 
the  nude  in  sculpture  and  painting. 


3  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

What  Is  Civilization? 

Men  thought  they  were  civilized  when  they 
sacrificed  human  lives  to  the  God  of  Luck.  Denied 
this  in  recent  times  animals  and  birds  have  been 
sacrificed  to  bring  good  luck  and  prosperity 
to  those  who  claimed  to  be  intelligent,  civilized 
people.  Such  sacrifices  were  made  when  the  foun- 
dation of  the  Turkish  buildings  were  laid  at  the 
Chicago  Exposition.  Over  a  railroad  on  which  I 
travelled  a  dozen  years  ago  in  Palestine,  financed 
by  Americans  and  their  money,  then  but  recently 
finished,  the  road  was  begun  by  living  sacrifices 
of  birds  and  animals  that  accompanied  the  cere- 
mony of  turning  over  the  first  spadeful  of  earth. 
It  is  strange  and  startling  in  this  age  to  know  that 
almost  every  custom  of  the  ancients  finds  counter- 
part or  analogy  in  some  custom  of  this  time.  Are 
we  building  roads  towards  the  stars  or  just  plod- 
ding over  the  same  moving  treadmill  our  ancestors 
trod?  Pagan  superstition  is  not  relegated  entirely 
to  the  dark  ages;  it  is  not  easily  eradicated,  for 
with  our  civilization  and  enlightenment  it  still 
exists. 

*      # 

Gyves. 

The  real  self  frets  against  the  gyves  of  civil- 
ized environments.  The  soul  yearns  for  the  plains, 
the  deserts  and  hills  with  their  unknown  horizons. 
To  wander  with  the  Bedouins  or  rugged  Tibetans 
on  the  roof  of  the  world — anything  rather  than 
endure  the  eternal  sameness  of  cities  and  civilza- 
tion  as  we  feel  and  live  it. 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHE'S 

When  the  conductor's  baton  is  laid  down  and 
the  drum  or  heart  beats  cease,  when  life's  music 
drops  from  a  grand  crescendo  and  agitato  to  the 
faintest  note  or  long  drawn  sigh  of  a  spirit  pass- 
ing from  the  earthly  opera  of  primatical  chorus 
and  soloists,  when  the  drop-curtain  of  the  eye®  is 
closed  on  the  loved  scenes,  what  then?  Will  the 
great  Conductor  and  Leader  take  the  blind,  be- 
wildered and  helpless  one  by  the  hand  and  lead 
him  to  a  heaven  of  ineffable  peace  and  rapture, 
a  heaven  of  music  without  jar  or  discord,  to  a 
thrilling,  buoyant  infinity  of  harmony? 

#       * 

The  Springs. 

Where  the  flotsam  and  jetsam  of  humanity 
go — a  mixed  multitude  of  afflicted  personalities — 
youth  with  stiffened  limbs  and  swollen,  distorted 
fingers,  and  others  with  saffron-c'olored  skin  show- 
ing inactive  and  sluggish  livers,  grey  haired 
women,  and  men  with  long  beards  waving  in  the 
sulphuric  atmosphere  like  agitated  bits  of  Spanish 
moss,  one  and  all  seeking  relief  from  ills  brought 
on  by  reckless  disregard  of  Nature's  teachings. 


Needless  Burdens. 

I  threw  the  load  of  adjectives  from  my  back 
early  in  life  and  forgot  to  load  up  heavily  after- 
wards. Being  of  an  incurably  languid  disposition, 
I  refuse  unnecessary  burdens.  I've  never  been 
given  a  sheaf  of  leaves  from  the  goob  tree,  hence 
I  have  not  found  an  antidote  for  laziness. 


—  5  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Humor. 

Humor  is  like  the  California  atmosphere  that 
oozes  into  one's  cuticle,  that  saturates  with  its 
sparkling  brightness,  uplifts  and  invigorates. 
Only  humor  oozes  out,  but  is  as  helpful  as  the 
other.  The  two  combined  will  make  an  optimist 
of  anyone. 

*      * 

The  Aryans. 

The  Aryans  were  a  happy,  playful,  joyous  lot 
of  Pagans,  and  I  wonder  at  times  whether  it  is 
through  reincarnations  or  the  blood  of  some  old 
Aryan  ancestor  that  I  have  inherited  much  of  their 
ideas  and  fancies.  Like  them,  I  worship  Nature ; 
like  them,  I  revel  in  the  joy  of  living,  trying  to 
extract  the  greatest  amount  of  pleasure  from  each 
passing  moment.  Their  gods  did  not  require  much 
of  penance  or  sacrifice,  the  minor  deities  were  not 
wrathful  or  destroying.  The  sad  pessimistic  minor 
note  that  has  ever  stayed  with  the  Hindus  crept  in 
later  with  the  responsibility  of  a  future  state  de- 
pending upon  one's  conduct.  Happy  old  Aryans, 
indeed !  when  they  sang  and  revelled  in  the  mere 
joy  of  living,  without  the  dread  of  future  punish- 
ment, care-free  until  the  idea  of  an  inexorable 
Law  crept  in  to  the  mind  of  the  teachers  who 
eventually  brought  to  their  minds  that  ' '  Life  was 
a  barren  vale  between  the  peaks  of  two  eternities 
of  woe  and  pain."  Working  its  way  into  the 
Hindu  religion,  its  sadness  has  ever  remained  with 
them.  Alas  for  the  Aryans !  happy  without  the 
Law,  and  alas  for  their  descendants,  condemned 
with  it. 


—  6  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

I  do  not  belong  to  the  solemn  order  of  a  restless 
religion  that  causes  its  devotees  to  arise  at  two  a.  m. 
in  order  to  chastise  the  body  for  housing  a  sinful 
spirit.  In  the  dark  and  cold,  the  frosty  hours, 
would,  I  fear,  make  me  think  with  pleasure  of  a 
hotter  if  not  a  more  desirable  region.  I  would 
prefer  a  drop  or  two  of  the  leaven  of  the  Orient 
that  would  permit  me  to  pin  my  prayers  to  any 
earthly  thing  that  would  hold  them,  while  I,  leav- 
ing them  to  the  care  of  the  gods,  would  wander 
through  heavenly  scenes  and  blazon  my  way  to 
shrines  of  my  own.  And  in  the  crimson  and  gold 
of  radiant  morns  and  fragrant  eves,  would  delight 
in  the  mad  revel  of  the  soul  which  worships  the 
Creator's  handiwork — this  dear  old  world — and 
pin  my  faith  to  the  truth  and  stability  of  Nature 
as  trustingly  as  do  the  Japanese  their  paper 
prayer,  and  trust  the  god  of  destiny  and  chance  to 
keep  them  in  place. 

*  * 

Some  people  have  genius  of  the  confluent  kind 
— it  breaks  out  like  prickly  heat  in  summer, 
spreads  as  quickly,  and  it  is  as  quickly  cured  or 
suppressed  by  c'old  applications  of  adverse  criti- 
cism. 

#  * 

Deliver  me  from  people  who  are  so  economical 
that  they  laugh  in  one-syllabled  sequences  in  order 
to  save  wrinkles  and  a  widening  of  the  mouth. 
Laughter  leaves  pleasing  marks,  demands  a  like 
return  for  what  it  gives,  and  is  the  most  depend- 
able sign  on  earth  of  a  happy,  pleasing  disposition. 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Sever  the  fetters  of  facts  and  take  a  riata 
and  lasso  fancies  and  phantasms  and  revel  in  the 
unreal,  forgetting  the  common-place  and  sordid- 
ness  of  everyday  life  for  a  time. 

*  * 

Old  necessity  has  driven  man  so  long  that  the 
habit  comes  from  our  ancestors,  dating  back  to 
cave  and  cliff  dwellers.  And  men  still  feeling 
the  rush  and  urgency  in  their  veins  are  ever- 
goaded  on  with  irresistable  endeavor.  Could  they 
be  satisfied  with  a  less  greedy  life,  devoting  them- 
selves more  to  each  day's  joys  rather  than  hoard- 
ing up  each  day's  gain,  how  much  better  and 
happier  would  the  world  of  mortals  be. 

*  * 
A  Letter. 

I  turned  the  old,  old  folios  of  memory  when  I 
received  your  message  of  love  and  remembrance 
today.  It  was  delicious,  creamy,  and  I  re-live 
again  days  spent  in  the  land  of  Osiris,  where  the 
Ibis  stalks  and  the  Lotus  leaves  nod  to  the  wind. 
I  feel  the  sorry  spot  in  my  heart  and  the  choke 
lump  so  deeply  that  the  swallow  will  not  act.  I 
long  for  the  desert,  the  Memnon,  Thebes  and 
Denderah  and  the  tombs  where  in  fancy  I  see  the 
bright  magnesium  flashes  dispel  the  gloom,  show- 
ing the  wonderful  paintings  and  sculpture  of  the 
early  Egyptians.  I  see  the  camels,  hear  the 
squeaking  of  the  shadoofs  lifting  the  water  from 
the  old  river  Nile  and  yearn  for  them  all,  even 
as  did  the  Israelites  in  their  forty  years  of 
wanderings. 


—  8  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Run  the  ploughshare  of  truth  through  the 
fallow  soil,  and  from  it  there  will  spring  only 
good  results,  and  in  the  world's  wide  furrows 
where  hearts  and  willing  hands  may  drop  the 
seeds  of  truth,  love  and  honesty,  evil  will  have 
scant  nourishment  and  will  be  choked  out  and  be 
as  naught.  The  grim  god  of  repression  is  always 
present  and  nudging  the  elbows  of  those  who  have 
within  them  thoughts,  aims  and  aspirations 
whispering,  "It  is  not  worth  while.  Why  work, 
why  try  for  the  uncertainties ' '  ?  But  stronger  and 
better  is  the  god  of  activity.  He  rules  oftenest, 
and  by  heeding  him  work  is  play  and  the  hours 
are  not  wasted.  For  they  make  the  morning  a 
thing  of  joy,  the  afternoon  a  song,  the  eventide 
a  prayer,  and  of  these  is  real  life  composed.  All 
the  rest  is  vain. 

#  * 

She  was  progressive  in  many  ways,  never  one 
who  trailed  behind  or  was  content  to  follow  paths 
made  by  more  conservative  people.  She  had 
learned  the  meaning  of  progressive  matrimony 
without  having  a  map,  guide  or  compass.  She 
progressed  rapidly  from  weeds — which  suited  her 
not  at  all — to  orange  blossoms  and  gray  etamine, 
almost  had  her  tears  ceased  falling  ere  the  sound 
of  the  tolling  bell  had  ceased  to  ring. 

*  * 


If  I  can  write  something  that  someone  will 
treasure  in  his  heart  as  worth  while  when  I  can 
write  no  more,  then  I  shall  not  count  my  labor  in 
vain. 


—  9  — 


MEMORY'S         POTLATCHES 

Life. 

Life  is  lived  but  once,  and  youth  lasts  not 
overlong.  Live  it  as  best  you  may,  mingle  with 
the  crowds  or  go  in  a  crowd  of  two,  without  the 
disturbing  personality  of  a  third,  which  some- 
times intrudes  into  the  harmony,  causing  a  dis- 
cord, as  did  the  third  sinuous  deceiver  in  the 
Garden  of  Eden.  There  are  times  when  Mesdames 
Prudence  and  Discretion  need  the  freedom  of  a 
loge  seat,  while  two  elemental  world-forgetting 
young  people  have  their  milk  and  honey  in  a  vine- 
shaded  pergola,  filled  with  innocent  joy  and  for- 
getful, happily,  of  the  omnipresent  gossips  who 
are  ever  hungry  for  morsels,  as  a  flock  of  sparrows 
are  for  a  bunch  of  street  offerings.  Let  the  young 
enjoy  life.  It  were  better  for  them  to  rip  open 
the  bag  of  knowledge  and  forget  all  but  the  mere 
joy  of  living.  Wisdom  often  means  a  world  of 
pain,  and  the  pleasures  of  youth  seldom  mean  re- 
gret. Mental  ballasst  is  not  always  needed  when 
head  and  heart  are  young.  Youth  has — as  it 
should  have — the  best  of  life,  for  their 's  is  the 
right  sense,  that  of  laughter  and  singing  the  hours 
away.  Life 'si  burdens  will  come  soon  enough  to 
those  who  are  free  from  them,  and  love,  if  it 
lightens  the  way,  is  life's  great  choral  symphony. 
The  keynote  of  the  dominant  melody  is  love,  not 
hate — as  some  would  have  it — but  the  vibrant  tone 
to  which  the  whole  world  is  attuned.  The  pageant 
of  poor  human  pride  and  folly  may  drift  by  like 
shadows  on  a  dim  sea,  but  love  endures,  brightens 
and  sustains,  lightens  every  burden  and  lines 
every  shadow  with  ineffable  light. 


—  10  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCH   E   S 

Life's  Meaning. 

As  we  loiter  along  Life 's  highways  and  byways 
and  the  years  slide  by,  we  are  prone  to  give  less 
time  to  the  fads  and  fancies  of  the  present,  and 
less  time  to  devote  to  new  theories  of  the  here- 
after. All  the  wisdom  of  the  universe,  all  the 
fancies  and  theories  matched  together  cannot 
change  one  of  God's  lasting  existing  laws  concern- 
ing the  universe  or  humanity.  Whose  plans  and 
laws  are  the  same  as  in  the  days  when  our  an- 
cestral fishes  swam  in  a  world  of  waters.  Prom 
the  age  of  blackness  we  have  a  planet  of  activity, 
a  wonderful  earth  that  has  in  its  evolutions,  pro- 
duced man  with  his  seemingly  limitless  power 
concerning  terrestrial  things.  With  knowledge 
we  are  fast  arranging  this  earth  into  a  place 
worthy  of  humanity  today,  and  it  should  be  suffi- 
cient to  do  this,  and  not  speculate  or  strive  to 
solve  the  unknowable  mysteries  hidden  from 
mortal  mind.  Life  is  ours — the  hereafter  we  can- 
not know.  Speculation  is  futile.  In  death  only 
can  the  mystery  be  solved. 


Pew  care  to  read  poetry  any  more.  America  is 
a  commercial  country,  and  one  must  write  what 
the  commercial  world  will  take  or  read. 


The  Imp  of  the  perversie  takes  possession  of 
most  of  us  at  times,  and  we  do  all  sorts  of  odd  and 
contrary  things,  for  the  pleasure  of  doing  the 
unusual. 


—  11  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Fought  and  Won. 

Those  who  have  fought  poverty,  sorrow  and 
despair  and  conquered  cannot  forget,  and  there 
are  scars  left  on  the  heart  that  time  cannot  efface. 
But  there  are  also  well-springs  of  joy  that  bubble 
up,  refresh  the  soul  and  give  it  courage ;  and  every 
baptism  from  the  spring  of  joy  gives  rainbow 
thoughts  that  uplift  the  heaviest  heart  and  blesses 
the  good  work  done. 

*  # 

Mother. 

Prom  memory's  vales  there  comes  now  and  then 
a  breeze  freighted  with  the  fragrance  of  loquats, 
acacia  and  orange  blossoms.  Dreamy,  restful  and 
soothing  as  the  droning  of  honey-laden  bees  in  the 
half-dreamed,  half-lived  hours  of  long  ago.  There 
comes,  too,  the  recollection  of  the  sweet  springtime 
when  the  queen  of  flowers  spread  her  prayer-rug, 
a  gorgeous  tapestry  of  bloom  amid  the  tangle  of 
green,  woven  in  wondrous  beauty  for  those  who 
wished  to  kneel  and  give  thanks  to  the  Creator 
of  all.  And  with  the  memory,  as  I  walk,  or  kneel, 
comes  the  vision  of  one  who  loved  the  tender 
flowers  in  earth's  gardens,  but  who  long  ago 
passed  to  a  winterless,  changeless  garden  where 
1  trust  she  found  the  dear,  sweet,  familiar  earth 
flowers  and  felt  that  heaven  was  not  strange. 

#  * 

Some  people  act  like  nutmeg  graters  on  our 
nerves,  and  wear  away  one's  patience  as  rapidly 
as  the  grater  does  the  nutmeg. 


—  12 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Duty. 

I  am  not  an  idealist  blinded  by  the  sun.  I  do 
not  think  it  shines  brighter  for  me  than  for  others. 
But  I  am  convinced  of  the  one  fact,  that  I  can 
keep  my  horizon  clear,  that  the  clouds  of  discon- 
tent, envy,  malice  and  slander  do  not  obscure  the 
sunshine  and  good  will,  of  charity  and  good-fellow- 
ship ;  that  keep  my  days  bright  and  cheerful,  and 
which  are  as  a  beacon  light  at  night.  Knowing 
also  that  to  do  one's  duty  as  it  presents  itself, 
without  counting  the  cost,  or  without  thought 
as  to  ultimate  results  means  at  least  the  road  to 
peace  if  not  happiness. 

*      * 
Sleep. 

Angel  of  sleep,  breathe  on  my  tired  lids,  close 
my  aching  eyes  and  steep  my  brain  in  sweet  for- 
getfulness  during  all  the  dim  night  hours.  Let 
its  somber  hands  bind  my  brow  and  let  my  dreams 
be  of  peace,  of  the  rest  of  rippling  brooks  singing 
to  drooping  ferns  bound  together  with  fairy  cob- 
webs silvered  with  glittering  dew  drops  and  of 
soft  shadows  wherein  lie  coolness  and  rest.  In 
dreams  let  me  wander  for  a  while  among  moon- 
kissed  spaces  and  flowery  uplands,  that  are 
a-gleam  with  sifting  silver  dust  of  star  flashes. 
Let  me  rest  among  the  great,  solemn  trees  that 
wait  in  hushed  expectancy  the  coming  of  the  god 
of  day.  And  thus  the  feverish,  restless  hours  will 
be  changed  into  calm,  peaceful  repose,  dream- 
fraugbt  and  blissful  that  only  you,  angel  of  sleep, 
may  give  and  bless  in  the  giving. 


—  13  — 


MEMORY'S         POTLATCHES 

Two  Paces. 

One  face  showed  that  it  had  looked  with  joy 
and  admiration  upon  the  glowing  sky,  and  in  its 
joyous  lineaments  shone  a  wholesome,  happy  ex- 
istence, and  like  the  sun  that  had  stained  it  with 
caresses  that  beams  upon  good  and  evil  alike,  &o 
this  man  with  his  face  radiating  goodness  and 
cordiality  to  one  and  all,  made  the  world  seem 
brighter  as  he  wended  his  way  happily  through 
the  years  allotted  him.  The  other's  face  seemed 
one  that  had  grown  in  morbid,  dank  places,  evil, 
antagonistic  thoughts,  intents  and  deeds  had 
thrown  spider-like  webs  over  the  whole  counte- 
nance, siurliness  of  disposition  and  ferocity  of  ac- 
tion were  webbed  together  to  make  up  an  evil, 
distorted  face  one  feared  to  look  upon,  and  forced 
one  to  levy  upon  his  personal  stock  of  optimism 
in  order  to  feel  that  all  men  were  created  equal, 
with  good  so  apparent  in  the  one  and  evil  simply 
springing  at  you  from  the  other's  bestial  face. 

*  * 

The  fools  are  not  all  dead.  No,  there  is  a  new 
one  born  every  minute;  the  supply  is  more  than 
equal  to  the  demand.  And  strangely  enough, 
there  have  always  been  an  extra  number  that 
have  been  tossed  by  Fate  in  my  direction. 

*  # 

It  is  the  infinite  expectations  that  are  the  charm 
and  joy  of  youth,  and  it  is,  alas !  the  limitations 
that  are  the  horror  of  age. 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

A  Shrine. 

I  was  glorified,  satisfied  and  saturated  by  the 
vision,  steeped  in  the  ineffable  charm  and  glory 
of  it — a  hallelujah  and  a  benediction  blessed  me. 
The  plain  below  a  shimmering  brocade  of  blossom, 
the  peaks  a  glimmering  glory,  with  foamy  clouds 
lacing  the  mystic  sheen  like  incense  wreaths 
around  some  holy  saint  in  old-world  churches.  A 
faint,  sweet  melody — the  crooning  songs  of  pines 
far  away — were  like  magical  harps  in  the  distance, 
and  came  sifting  through  the  fragrant  atmosphere, 
carrying  me  away  in  waves  of  glorified  radiance 
that  left  no  thought  or  desire  for  aught  but  to 
build  up  a  heap  of  stones  and  bow  down  in  silent 
admiration. 


Keep  me  from  ruthless  tongues  lest  I  measure 
their  worthlessness  and  uselessness  too  closely. 
And  from  those  who  smile  while  unsheathing 
the  poisoned  rapier  of  malice  and  envy.  But  give 
me  for  friends  men  and  women  who  face  life 
directly — who  live  and  want  others  to  live — lives 
free  from  guile  while  they  are  wrapped  about 
with  the  garments  of  contentment. 


It  is  easy  and  comfortable  after  all  to  go 
real  image  of  Buddha  and  throw  a  prayer  or  two 
at  him,  knowing  they  have  reached  a  destination, 
rather  than  offer  up  orisons,  sending  them  some- 
where heavenward  with  an  anemic  force  the 
means  of  propulsion. 


—  15  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Day  of  Days. 

Let  us  be  up  and  away!  remembering  only 
today,  and  abandon  ourselves  to  the  charm  and 
beauty  of  it.  Let  us  be  as  the  merest  children, 
forgetting  worldly  lore,  calculating  and  sordid 
motives,  shaking  off  the  ghastly  material  things 
of  daily  life,  and  revelling  in  an  upper  strata  of 
harmony  and  love  pure  as  the  sun-kissed  snows 
on  the  Sierra's  peaks.  Knowing  that  we  shall 
remember,  until  life's  fires  have  smouldered,  the 
eharm  and  delight  of  freedom  of  an  elemental 
and  primitive  day,  and  strive  to  be  what  Nature 
intended  we  two  elemental  beings  to  be — such  as 
Wagner  must  have  moulded  and  crystallized  into 
Tristan  and  Isolde. 


I  know  what  it  means  to  enjoy  a  vacation  and 
delights  of  "home  cooking,"  where  flies  in 
platoons,  pickets  and  reserves  assaulted  the  hol- 
low squares  of  cake  and  pallid  custard,  making 
full  stops  on  the  bread,  and  for  the  good  of  the 
cause  drowning  themselves  in  pitchers  of  hand* 
drawn  milk,  achieving  a  glorious  victory  without 
resistance. 

*      * 

Having  never  been  a  genius  at  mathematics  I 
do  not  find  it  easy  to  fathom  the  arithmetic  of 
justice,  that  sentences  a  boy-tramp  who  steals  a 
loaf  of  bread  because  he  is  hungry  to  twenty 
years  of  imprisonment,  and  gives  a  man  who  steals 
a  quarter  of  a  million — a  trusted  bank  official- 
five  years. 


t$pflpftit«l$ 

—  16  — 


MEMORY'S 


POTLATCHES 


The  Mocking  Bird  and  the  Man. 

Above  the  green  earth  on  the  topmost  bough 
of  a  magnolia  tree  a  mocking  bird  eyed  me  with 
indifference  as  I  paused  to  hear  him  sing.  Sway- 
ing, lifting  his  wings  preparatory  for  flight,  he 
suddenly  darted  upwards,  zigzagging,  turning 
somersaults  in  the  air  in  ecstasy,  only  to  drop 
down  again  and  pour  out  his  twittering,  thrilling, 
joyous  notes  in  rollicking  imitation  of  other  birds. 
A  chorus,  an  orchestra  in  his  one  little  throat, 
blissfully  happy  and  demonstrating  it,  he  sent 
showers  of  bird  notes,  seeming  to  know  that  the 
exquisite  music  would  be  appreciated  by  wing- 
less mortals.  While  he  sang  a  man  ploughing  in 
a  vineyard  below  was  lashing  and  cursing  his 
horses,  poor,  thin  and  overworked,  painfully 
struggling  and  straining  to  pull  the  plough 
through  the  soil  and  tangled  roots,  doing  all  their 
strength  would  allow,  helpless  and  quivering 
under  his  lashes  and  blasphemous  words,  that  sent 
me  away  quivering  and  helpless,  too,  out  of  sight 
and  hearing.  Bird  notes  of  praise,  exquisite  thrills 
and  gurgles  of  happiness  and — man  made  in  His 
image — raising  his  hands  to  torture,  and  his  voice 
in  blasphemy,  a  morning  of  contrasts  and  one  in 
favor  of  birds  and  beasts  with  a  lessening  respect 
for  the  trousered,  brutal  man. 

*      # 
Sanctuary. 

Some  women  cry  "sanctuary"  for  themselves, 
and  when  safe  and  secure  will  betray  and  flay 
those  who  have  not  been  successful  as  themselves. 


MEMORY'S          POTL  A  T   C   H   E   S 



Noon  Time. 

I  cry  no  longer  for  the  far  off  moon, 
And  grieve  no  more  for  youth's  radiant  glow, 

Caring  less  for  memory's  flashing  stars, 
As  I  smilingly  wander  to  and  fro, 

Less  heedless  of  Time's  fierce  blows  and  scars, 
For  contentment  is  mine  at  Life's  high  noon, 

*       # 
Flotsam. 

Softly  and  gently  the  heart  throbbed  and  the 
pulse  was  a-rythm,  soothing,  lulling.  The  gear 
of  the  mind  was  off,  and  it  was  slackening,  slow- 
ing, drifting.  Consciousness,  too,  was  unmoored, 
circling,  eddying  as  the  current  might  demand, 
but  adrift  with  no  real  thought  or  care.  No  com- 
pelling life  forces  at  work.  Its  depths  and  ca- 
pacities ambushed.  The  world  forgotten  in  the 
submerged  will  and  dazed  mentality;  just  a  rud- 
derless thing  at  beck  and  call  of  wind  and  waves. 
But  with  it  all  a  sense  of  something  infinitely 
sweet  surged  up,  and  then  through  the  void  amid 
darkness  a  shaft  of  light  pierced  the  gloom, 
changing  into  a  glorious  burst  of  radiance,  and 
there  was  no  more  night  or  unrest.  The  storm- 
tossed  and  earth-worn  had  found  anchor  on 
ternity's  shore. 


Contrasts  are  the  salt  of  life,  and  I  have  been 
pretty  lucky  in  having  salt  of  that  kind,  and  the 
savor  has  not  lost  any  of  its  value  by  the  multi- 
plicity of  the  difference  and  changes. 


—  18  — 


MORY'S          POTLATCHES 


Childhood's  Shrine. 
Fragrant  and  sweet  with  old  memories  is  the 
corner  in  the  old  oaken-raftered  room  where  I 
used  to  sit  watching  the  flames  wreathe  and  en- 
twine the  logs  in  the  fire  place.  The  tragedy  of  the 
wood  crying,  weeping,  shrinking  from  the  fiery 
tongues  that  licked  up  the  tears  that  oozed  out  of 
the  ends,  fascinated  me  by  their  beauty;  the  lam- 
bent flames  filled  me  with  ecstasy  and  the  vision 
of  star  sparks  flying  up  through  the  chimney  to 
make,  as  I  thought,  other  bright,  shining  stars 
in  the  heavens.  A  beautiful  old  room,  a  fire  for 
dreams,  for  memories  and  fancies,  the  brightness 
lingers  yet  when  the  tragedies  and  comedies  of 
life  have  been  enacted;  when  the  mind's  colum- 
baria is  filled  with  futile  hopes,  ambitions  and 
loves  and,  though  laid  away,  they,  like  childhood's 
remembrances,  are  lasting  and  unforgetable  as  I 
walk  the  furrows  of  life. 


A  kind  word,  a  little  flattery  may  be  like  a 
ap  bubble  that  is  round  and  beautiful  to  be- 
old,  but  worthless  in  its  way.  Like  the  irri- 
desicent  bubble  words  of  praise,  even  if  not  merit- 
ed, are  pleasant  and  help  wonderfully  while  striv- 
ing to  do  one 's  best  going  through  life 's  fords  and 
shoals. 

*      * 

" Put  not  new  wine  into  old  skins/'  yet  how 
many  fools  there  be  that  put  old  wine  into  new 
skin  with  equally  disastrous  results. 


19  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Never  Hurry  Land. 

The  lulling  droning  of  the  bees  among  the 
golden  rod,  and  the  songs  of  sweet  desire  of  the 
thrush  come  from  the  enchanted  realm  of  the 
Never-hurry  land.  Earth  and  air  of  enchanting 
rapture  seem  to  blend  into  dreamy  don't-care 
hours.  Dalliance  folds1  one  close  within  her  grasp, 
while  the  winds  call  in  soft  intonations.  Faint 
multitudinous,  rythmic  melodies  come  from  the 
insect  world  and  bless  the  listening  ears.  Eyes 
follow  the  estatic  flights  of  birds  high  in  the  air, 
dropping  straight  downward  through  air-holes, 
and  then  in  joyous  abandon  tossing  over  billows 
of  air  swifter  than  the  wind.  One's  whole  being 
resting  from  the  blows  of  sound  back  in  the  work- 
a-day  land  that  perforce  draws  you  like  the  intake 
of  the  whirlwind,  a  helpless  straw  from  this 
realm  of  delight  and  new  variety  of  thought  and 
channels,  back  to  thoughts  of  self  and  the  Indian 
sickness  of  "Back  thoughts"  and  "too  long 
thinking. ' ' 

*      * 

One  marvels  at  the  discoveries  of  the  age  and 
wonders  why  an  overlooked  portion  of  the  human 
body — the  appendix — was  discovered  as  late  as 
1886.  Since  then  various  brands  of  dyspepsia 
have  dwindled  to  symptomatic  dyspepsia.  In  times 
the  appendix  may  dwindle  and  be  of  less  import- 
ance. Just  now  it  is  the  fashion,  the  pet  and  joy 
of  physicians.  The  motor  car  had  its  birth  in 
1886  also,  and  it  has  raced  the  appendix  to  the  mile 
post  with  a  close  second  in  the  death  rate. 


—  20  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Society's  Dead  Sea  Fruit. 

It  is  but  ashes  to  the  taste  and  palls  upon  one  's 
senses  after  a  while.  We  thread  the  mazes  of  re- 
ceptions, dances,  theatres,  parties  and  dinners  and 
outdoor  as  well  as  indoor  functions;  we  hear 
homilies  and  florid  platitudes  which  are  weari- 
some though  innocuous.  The  earnest  person  is  apt 
to  be  dreary,  the  jocose  commonplace,  and  at  the 
feasts  we  meet  the  eminently  dull,  or  those  whom 
liquids  cheer  who  are  noisy  and  give  retold  stories 
and  anecdotes  that  have  been  out  of  service  so 
long  that  if  retired  on  half  -pay  would  be  a  swindle. 
Conversation,  if  ever  an  art,  is  not  the  fashion. 
Warmed  over  humor  is  monotonous  and  debilitat- 
ing; its  effect  produces  inertia  and  a  disposition 
to  yawn,  the  positive  ear-mark  of  discourtesy,  but 
not  always  easy  to  c'ontrol. 
*  * 

I  may  be  part  Mohammedan  in  this  —  that  I 
love  the  c'olor  green  so  well.  Other  than  that  I 
am  glad  that  I  was  not  born  in  a  land  where  men 
only  pray  and  must  —  according  to  the  Koran  — 
wash  before  praying.  As  women  do  not  count  in 
the  religious  duties,  they  never  pray  and  rarely 
wash.  The  women  and  flies  of  Egypt  attest  the 
fact  of  filthiness  in  the  extreme.  Superstition, 
some  say,  is  the  reason  why  flies  are  never  mo- 
lested. Laziness  and  indifference  seem  nearer 
the  mark,  I  fancy  ;  hence,  one  sees  eyes  half  eaten 
out  by  sores  caused  by  flies  that  are  never  brushed 
away.  A  new  Koran,  a  cleaner  religion  would  be 
of  incalculable  benefit  to  Egypt. 


—  21  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

It  is  foolish  to  look  forward  to  better  things. 
To  wish  we  could  all  be  young  or  "a-bornin"  at 
the  present  time.  Why  not  think  of  the  past — of 
the  time  when  our  forefathers  forgot  and  let  the 
fires  go  out  on  hot  nights  and  had  to  borrow  coals 
the  next  day  or  eat  raw  food.  They  knew  not  the 
efficacy  of  fireless  cookers,  the  joys  of  electricity, 
automobiles,  aeroplanes  and  wonders  of  this  age 
of  achievement.  One  ought  to  be  thankful  for 
existence  now,  and  deem  it  a  privilege  to  have  a 
seat  in  the  gallery.  Just  living  in  these  splendid 
times  is  worth  everything,  and  should  be  sufficient 
without  anticipation  or  complaint. 

*  * 

Longings  For  a  Voice  That  Is  Still. 
I  listen  in  eagerness,  and  your  voicfe  seems  to 
come  from  the  winds  and  the  waves,  sweet,  faint 
and  refreshing  like  the  sound  of  bells  in  far  away 
meadows  echoing  against  the  rim  of  memory. 

*  * 

I've  been  longing  for  you,  the  exhilaration  of 
your  presence  is  like  a  draught  of  cool  water  to 
my  thirsty  being.  My  heart  dotted  and  carried 
one — and  in  the  summing  up  was  delighted  with 
the  whole,  for  it  meant  June  and  you. 

*  # 

VvB 

Eve  and  the  Apple. 

Human  nature — or  woman  nature — is  pretty 
much  the  same  since  Eve  dropped  the  core  of  her 
pippin  and  ran  hurriedly  to  the  fig  tree  for  the 
latest  fashion  in  pinafores. 


,  —  22  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Needless  Gifts. 

Did  those  who  sent  flowers  to  the  dead  ever 
think  it  worth  while  to  send  to  the  living  kind 
thoughts,  give  a  word  of  cheer  or  a  bit  of  money 
to  him  in  his  hour  of  need  and  want?  Flowers 
on  his  coffin,  however  fragrant,  mean  nothing  to 
the  dead.  Eyes  and  senses  that  might  have  been 
gladdened  by  their  brightness  and  perfume,  the 
heart  that  might  have  been  cheered  by  the 
thought  that  some  one  cared — that  some  one  re- 
membered— while  he  lived  was  slighted  and  neg- 
lected. Ah,  me,  the  pity  of  it!  Post-mortem  of- 
ferings are  useless*;  the  dead  do  not  need  them. 


At  the  Seaside. 

An  afternoon,  such  an  one  as  Paul  Veronese 
loved,  when  I  sat  above  the  crowd,  away  from  its 
restless  feet  and  unquiet  hearts  watching  the  sun 
glints  on  the  ocean,  the  changing  lights  and  shad- 
ows gleaming  on  the  sparkling  waters.  There 
were  numberless  yachts  gliding  along,  stately, 
(sentient,  vibrant  things,  responding  to  the  way- 
ward winds,  the  great  white  sails  fluttering  or 
tightening  as  they  caught  the  fickle  gust®.  Then 
speeding  away  over  the  dimpling  waters  like  joy- 
ous, animated  greyhounds,  eager  for  the  race  and 
coveted  prize. 

*      * 

Honorable  failures  are  noble,  but  to  double  and 
fail  is  a  crime  where  a  few  are  gathered  together 
and  play  bridge. 


—  23  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

There  are  times  when  I  tighten  up  my  heart 
strings  and  refuse  to  let  them  be  played  upon  by 
people  having  imaginary  woes.  I  have  enough 
of  my  own — know  enough  of  the  real — that 
strains  and  tugs  and  will  be  with  me  until  I  pass 
beyond  the  sapphire  rim  of  earthly,  sordid  things ; 
enough  to  last  until  the  world's  old  gates  of  Time 
for  me  are  closed  forever. 

#      * 
Age  and  Ashes. 

Life's  fires  have  grown  dim  and  are  hidden 
beneath  dull,  gray  ashes.  The  fires  of  love,  of 
youth  and  its  attendant  brightness  no  longer 
gleam  brightly  or  warm  with  the  glowing  flashes 
of  joy  and  delight.  Flames  that  wove  and  inter- 
laced threads  of  happiness  into  web  and  woof  of 
sunbeams,  a  wondrous  tapestry  that  made  up  the 
radiant  garments  of  youth  in  its  dawn  of  life. 
Now  the  tapestry  is  worn,  faded  and  gray,  the 
forest  of  glad  thoughts  and  happy  anticipations 
is  one  of  bare  branches  grim,  solemn  and  cold. 
Yet  recollections  of  a  happier  youth  mean  much, 
and  reminiscences  are  dear  in  the  recalling. 
"Sorrow's  crown  of  sorrow"  is  not  in  remember- 
ing happier  things,  but  the  crown  of  sorrow  that 
burdens  and  presses  its  cold,  heavy  band  on  the 
foreheads  of  those  who  have  not  known  the  glad- 
ness and  happiness  that  should  be  the  inheritance 
of  youth,  when  it  and  the  world  were  in  the 
dawning — to  have  no  happy  childhood  days  to 
recall — that,indeed,  means  sorrow's  crown  and  its 
heavy  cross  as  well. 


—  24  — 


t     "~~~ 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Music. 

There  are  souls  who  prefer  the  rag-time  airs 
and  noise  of  the  vaudeville  stage  rather  than  the 
heaven  of  Beethoven,  Chopin,  Schumann  or  Bach, 
and  the  short-circuit  repartee  of  a  one-act  than  the 
poetry  of  Shelley  or  Keats.  Truly  of  what  un- 
costly material  is  happiness  to  some  of  us.  But 
as  the  moon,  a  gleaming  silver  cycle,  carves  its 
way  through  foamy,  fleecy  clouds,  so  do  some  of 
earth's  creatures  love  to  carve,  to  dig  and  delve 
into  the  mysteries  of  music  and  poetry,  until  they 
sound  the  depths  and  heights,  finding  in  them 
life's  meaning  and  life's  greatest  joy. 

*      # 

Fountains  of  Joy. 

The  geysers  of  my  happiness  are  spontaneous 
and  faithful  as  that  one  recurring  hourly  in  the 
famed  and  beautiful  park — the  Yellowstone.  My 
mind,  too,  sends  up  a  shower,  though  different, 
a  shower  of  glorious,  sparkling  thoughts,  wishes 
and  satisfied  thanks,  when  morning  comes  leap- 
ing up  over  the  hills  or  when  the  sunbeam's  last 
rays  tinge  the  peaks  with  tints  of  rose.  But  my 
geysers  of  love  and  adoration  do  not  fall  earth- 
ward, but  ascend  to  the  God  of  Nature,  the  Cre- 
,tor  of  us  all. 

He         # 

Many  of  us  rear  an  altar  to  the  god  of  achieve- 
ment and  faithfully  worship  there.  It  is  the  only 
aPar  worth  while.  The  altar  to  success  and  en- 
deavor. The  God  of  the  universe  needs  no  hand- 
built  altars;  our  heart's  offerings  are  enough. 


—  25  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

A  Waif. 

Appearances  mean  a  good  deal,  at  least  the 
beggar  needed  no  tag  or  label  for  identification. 
He  seemed  the  very  embodiment  of  assaulted  and 
battered  innocenc'e.  There  was  such  a  look  of 
helplessness  and  hopelessness  in  his  eyes  that  it 
took  me  by  storm,  and  incidentally  took  all  the 
contents  of  my  compassion  box  as  well  as  some- 
thing more  substantial  from  my  already  attenu- 
ated purse.  The  dark  moth  night  had  spread  his 
wings  over  him,  leaving  but  little  of  light  and  joy 
of  existence.  Life's  best  had  passed  him  by  with 
flying  feet,  leaving  him  with  his  hemlock  in  the 
furrows. 

*  * 

Love  of  Change. 

It  is  not  hay  fever  that  affects  the  people  in 
summer,  as  much  as  the  "go  fever."  That  is  a 
disease  likely  to  attack,  as  it  does,  most  mortals  at 
times,  and  isiome  of  us  never  recover  or  are  free 
from  it. 

*  * 

The  Trail. 

We  keep  our  noses  to  the  trail,  follow  the  old 
scent,  forgetful  of  the  new  and  more  alluring  paths 
and  ways,  fragrant  with  scents  of  newer,  fresher 
things  more  worthy  of  pursuit.  Thus  missing 
trophies  in  our  dullness  and  set  purposes  faring 
farther  a-field  in  useless  endeavor,  missing  the  best 
by  the  way,  and  thus  losing  the  prize  more  often 
than  otherwise  in  the  end. 


—  26  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

I  would  prefer  spending  my  life  penning  an- 
thems, rather  than  puzzling  my  brain  with  prob- 
lems, or  in  sending  out  messages  that  will  not  tend 
to  make  other  people  happy. 

*  * 

The  whites  of  uncooked  eggs  must  undergo 
coagulation  in  the  stomach.  I  prefer  mine  cooked 
and  spare  the  stomach.  Let  the  gas  burn  and  at- 
tend to  the  coagulation  process.  Eawness  in  a  lot 
of  things  suits  me  not  at  all. 

*  * 

Some  inexplicable  thing  in  the  atmosphere  sank 
into  my  senses,  rooted  out  memories,  longings  and 
desires  that  must  have  belonged  to  dust-blown 
ancestors  ages  before  this  thing  called  myself, 
knew  what  thought,  what  happiness  aye — and 
sorrow,  too — meant. 

*  * 

Be  jovial  and  foolish  if  you  will,  and  remem- 
ber only  happy  things;  forget  the  edge  of  your 
voice,  the  thinning  and  whitening  of  the  hair  on 
the  temples,  and  the  pale,  watery  circles  in  the 
eyes  if  you  can.  Some  things  were  better  for  the 
forgetting.  Let  others  see  and  know  if  they  wish, 
but  educate  yourself  to  the  possibilities  of  the 
recall,  and  you  at  least  will  Jive  in  a  hypnotic 
stage  and  be  oblivious!  of  age.  Knowing  only  with- 
out doubt  that  the  heart  is  young  and  unchanging 
in  its  hopes,  its  loves  and  desires.  Keeping  it  so, 
what  does  the  shape  or  the  outer  shell  of  the 
frame  matter? 


—  27  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Two  Tramps. 

One  I  saw  walking  wearily  along  the  path  that 
ran  beside  the  main  road  which  was  a-gleam  with 
flashing,  sputtering  automobile®  and  gentler  pur- 
rings  of  electric  machines,  leaving  only  for  him 
and  his  burdened  back  the  dust  and  smoke  of 
flight.  He  was  hope's  forgotten  hobo,  and  his 
hopeless  eyes  were  pale,  dim  and  milky,  with  the 
days  that  had  come  and  gone,  leaving  their  trace 
on  the  prematurely  aged  face  and  eyes.  The 
years  and  the  abundant  dust  of  the  wayside  had 
eaten  and  made  strange,  pitiful  etchings  on  the 
shrunken  skin.  Made  in  His  image  and  likeness, 
yet  apparently  forgotten  by  God  and  man,  he 
was  one  of  Life's  inexplicable  problems  we  fain 
would  solve  but  cannot,  no  more  than  we  can 
tell  or  fathom  the  vagaries  of  the  human  mind. 
Another  wayfarer  that  the  tides  of  life  had  left 
high  and  dry  seemingly  on  inhospitable  shores, 
arrested  my  attention  as  he  paused  leaning  with 
shaking  hands  on  a  stick  for  support  before  a 
tent  wherein  a  palmist  professed  to  tell  one's  past, 
present  and  future.  He,  tottering  with  age  and 
infirmity,  with  the  future's  horizon  and  boundary 
line  so  near  he  need  not  ask  concerning  them, 
for  even  his  earth-dusted  eyes  must  see  the  shad- 
ows at  his  feet.  Yet  hope  the  swing  in  which  we 
toss  and  vibrate  all  our  lives,  still  swung  for  him. 
The  past  he  knew,  the  future  with  its  possibilities 
of  love  and  happiness  to  illumine  it,  its  gleam  of 
gold  and  heavenly  chances,  drove  him  in,  and  his 
last  pittance  went  to  feed  his  soul  on  hope,  rather 
than  using  it  for  his  physical  needs.  The  soul's 


—  28  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

demand  was  stronger  than  hunger  and  hope's 
beacon  light  flashed  its  beams  through  the  dark- 
ness and  despair.  His  face  was  illumined  when  he 
cfame  out,  deluded  with  a  promise  of  better 
things,  life  would  perhaps  be  more  endurable.  If 
so,  then  let  hope  be  nourished,  whatever  the 
means. 

He       # 

We  work  and  toil  to  achieve,  to  attain  our  am- 
bitions, regretting  when  life's  summit  is  reached, 
when  hope's  fruition  is  ours,  that  the  incline  is 
steep  and  the  way  short.  Why  not  be  like  chil- 
dren who  rush  and  toil  for  the  top  and  then  en- 
joy the  slide  down  the  incline  more  than  the  going 
up.  There's  wisdom  in  it. 

*  * 

His  face  was  lined  and  grooved  about  the  eyes 
and  mouth,  showing  plainly  that  he  had  played  the 
game  of  life  to  the  limit,  and  now  was  approach- 
ing the  goal  where  luggage  of  all  kinds  must  be 
left  behind,  except  his  sins,  and  upon  them 
"excess"  will  be  labeled,  and  the  payment  will  be 
extracted  even  unto  the  last  fraction. 

#  * 

Keep  the  Pandora  box  of  your  mind  closed. 
Do  not  allow  the  sins  of  envy  or  malice  or  covet- 
ousness  to  escape.  But  let  your  heart,  your 
thoughts  expand,  grow  and  send  broadcast  to  a 
needy  world  the  sparks  of  love  and  brightness  like 
a  rocket  sent  skyward.  Then,  indeed,  will  peace 
abide  with  you. 


—  29  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

An  Easter  Day. 

Easter  blessings  are  not  necessarily  found  with- 
in walled  enclosures.  One  may  find  them  in  the 
highways  and  byways.  So  I  felt  when  I  sped 
away  past  fields  and  over  white-ribboned  roads 
with  dull  care  strung  up  somewhere  behind  and 
the  place  forgotten.  But  with  joy  along  with 
me,  and  in  its  buoyant  companionship  I  flew 
along  with  the  ease  of  the  birds  winging  their 
way  overhead.  All  nature  seemed  to  rejoice — an 
oratorio,  a  symphony  came  from  feathered  chor- 
isters, and  the  winds  touching  the  taut  wires  strung 
along  the  highway  sent  down  soft,  harp-like  music 
indescribably  sweet  and  harmonious.  And  I — 
even  as  they  on  that  first  Easter  morn  who  did 
not  find  Him  in  a  temple — but  abroad  in  the  road 
felt  also  a  blessing  and  a  benediction  on  the  high- 
way. 

*      * 

Leisure  of  the  spirit  is  as  needful  as  rest  is  to 
the  body,  for  it  tires  of  antagonistic  influences, 
and  needs1  to  gain  strength  by  repose,  that  it  may 
not  be  too  weary  to  accomplish  its  desires  before 
it  passes  from  the  body.  It  needs  encouragement ; 
its  food  is  love;  it  desires  to  assert  itself,  to  de- 
velop. Then  give  the  divine  nature  within  you  a 
chance  to  grow  and  to  unfold.  Nurture  this  in- 
effable, birthless  and  deathless  part  of  you  that 
shall  cease  to  be,  never,  the  part  death  cannot 
touch,  the  immortal,  changeless  spark  enclosed 
in  the  earth  shell — which,  being  of  the  dust,  shall 
return  to  it. 


—  30  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATC  HE   S 

Loving  Thoughts. 

I  may  not  have  an  overabundance  of  worldly 
goods,  but  I  am  not  paupered  or  stinted  in  love  and 
kindness,  which,  encouraged  and  nurtured,  means 
growth  and  richness  of  life,  and  thank  God  there 
is  wealth  a-plenty  in  my  heart,  the  wealth  of  lov- 
ing thoughts  which  is  inexhaustible  for  my 
friends. 

*  * 

She  was  long,  lank  and  anemic,  a  Botticelli 
that  spindled  and  went  to  seed  without  proper 
moisture  or  nourishment,  and,  like  an  ear  of  corn 
in  a  dry  season,  had  not  filled  out.  Inadvertently 
I  muttered  something  to  that  effect.  Evidently 
her  ears  were  well  developed,  for  if  looks  count  for 
anything,  I  would  have  melted  like  a  slug  sprink- 
led with  salt.  Not  being  a  slug  or  a  mimosa  bud 
I  did  not  shrivel,  but  I  kissed  the  lintel  post  when 
safe  at  home  and  cried  ' '  sanctuary. ' ' 

#  * 

Liars  use  the  wireless  system  and  the  C.  Q.  D. 
never  fails.  Its  signals  find  ready  replies,  but 
poor  old  Truth  plods  along  in  its  pack  train  time, 
and  arrives  usually  when  it  is  too  late. 


What  is  the  use  of  calling  attention  to  our 
troubles  and  worries?  Other  people  are  not  in- 
terested, and  it  is  better  not  to  gjve  them  free 
lodgings.  Put  them  in  the  hurry-up  wagon  and 
send  them  away,  and  do  not  tax  your  memory  as 
to  their  destination. 


—  31  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Books. 

My  books  are  as  sacred  to  me  as  is  the  Koran 
to  all  followers  of  Mohammed,  which  must  be 
elevated  above  the  floor  and  none  may  touch  or 
read  without  legal  ablution.  How  many,  many 
books  I  have  loaned  dear  to  me  that  have  come 
back  marred  by  unclean  fingers,  with  creased  or 
turned  down  pages,  a  very  profanation  and  cruel 
disregard  of  spotless  purity  and  my  generosity  in 
loaning  to  those  who  care  not  or  have  the  de- 
cency to  appreciate  the  book  or  the  owner's  kind- 
ness. 

*  * 
Shut  In. 

I  have  paced  up  and  down  the  walls  of  life,  and 
while  the  path  was  pleasant,  ever  and  ever  have 
I  searched  for  an  opening  through  which  I  might 
look  and  perhaps  find  the  reason  and  why — of 
Life 's  walls  and  hedges, — ever  hoping  for  a  glimpse 
of  something  tangible,  a  knowledge  or  sign  of 
happiness  that  might  be  given  as  a  surety,  some- 
thing beyond  faith  only,  in  a  hereafter  where  we 
would  know  our  own. 

*  * 

W=L 

All  things  come  to  him  who  waits.  I  am  not 
a  good  waiter,  and  will  take  my  chances  at  the 
head  of  the  procession. 


Traditionally  a  woman  was  made  out  of  a  bone. 
If  so,  why  is  she  called  the  weaker  sex,  when 
man  was  made  out  of  the  dust? 
f/J 


—  32  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  white  corpuscles  in  our  blood  are  to  the 
system  what  the  Irish  are  to  the  world  of  soldiers 
and  policemen — apparently  indifferent,  loafing 
lazily  along,  yet  ever  on  the  alert  for  antagonists, 
always  eager  for  a  fight  which  is  usually  to  a 
finish  without  the  need  of  surgeons.  Leucocytes 
and  Irish  fighters,  when  the  war  is  ended,  are  still 
able  to  fight,  or  are  beyond  the  need  of  surgery. 

*  * 

Some  of  the  thoughts  of  Pythagoras  and  his1 
followers  have  slid  down  the  centuries — wave 
thoughts — that  have  been  transmitted  and  found 
lodgment  with  us,  possibly,  in  these  days  of  wire- 
less messages;  and  we  find  ourselves  listening 
for  the  music  of  the  spheres,  of  the  seven  wander- 
ing stars,  each  of  which  emitted  a  note,  the  com- 
bination forming  harmonies  of  sound.  Plato  be- 
lieved each  sphere  had  a  siren,  one  who  gave  out 
to  the  others  her  own  sweet  music,  and  the  melody 
made  the  heavenly  harmonies.  Goethe,  Shake- 
speare and  Milton  all  believed  and  expressed  in 
various  ways  the  idea  of  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
-'The  morning  stars "  sang,  and  the  "Sons1  of  God 
shouted  for  joy."  Our  din  distraught  ears  may 
not  be  able  to  hear  the  music  of  the  spheres,  but 
at  times  the  inner  consciousness  is  flooded  with 
harmonies  that  are  not  surely  of  the  earth. 

*  # 

Ideas  that  are  vague  and  unformulated  may 
become  formulated  and  crystallized  into  ideals 
that  will  help  us  or  teach  us  how  to  live,  and  be- 
come a  vital  force  that  will  strengthen  the  mind. 


—  33-, 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 


The  Curfew. 

The  curfew  tolls  no  knell  on  Market  Street, 
When  the  hungry  hordes  wend  forth  to  eat; 
Where,  in  the  gleam  and  glare,  poor  virtue  veils 

her  face, 
And  sin  ramps  forth,  hot-footed  for  the  nightly 

pace. 

The  paths  of  prudence  do  not  intersect  the  bla- 
zoned way, 
Where  men,  forgetful  of  tomorrow,  or  the  dawn 

of  day, 

Are  minded  only  when  the  newsboy's  clarion  call 
To  read  "the  latest, "  arouses  one  and  all. 
Then  men  to  woes  of  labor  go,  from  stalls  of  food 

and  booze, 
To  rest  and  dalliance  sweet;  the  women's  mind 

enthuse. 
Sin,  hiding  from  the  light  of  day,  awaits  each 

coming  night, 
While  virtue  wakes  to  vain  regrets  when  comes 

the  morning's  light. 
The  paths  of  peace  and  saner  walks  of  life  the 

herds  remember  not — 

They  are  as  things  unknown  to  those  who  've  tried 
the  syncopated  trot. 


—  34 


MEMORY'S         POTLATCHES 



Scholars  and  rabbis  declare  Moses  a  myth  and 
Exodus  a  romance.  Then  give  us  myths  and  ro- 
mance, for  they  are  sweet  in  the  learning  and  the 
possessor  will  be  all  the  richer  and  better  for  the 
knowledge.  They  are  like  the  sweet  mystery  of  a 
miracle  in  a  night  in  spring.  In  the  bloom  of 
^/flowers  and  innumerable  faint  odors  the  winds 
bring  us.  The  mystery  of  growing  things  and  also 
the  mystery  of  our  immortal  souls,  that  are  raised 
and  uplifted  by  inexplicable  and  unexplainable 
things.  Myths,  mystery  and  romance  feed  our 
souls  and  nourish  as  food  does  the  body.  When 
life  is  stripped  of  all  but  e'old,  hard  facts  it  is  as 
alluring  as  a  skeleton  and  about  as  attractive. 

#  * 
Duty, 

No  instruments  have  been  invented  that  can 
test  the  soul  of  a  woman  who  knows  her  life  to 
be  sacrificed  to  duty,  as  the  word  is  understood, 
and  yet  is  brave  enough  to  hide  her  wrongs,  her 
sorrows,  carrying  her  burden  of  woe  because  of 
man-made  laws  and  senseless  orthodox  rules  that 
bind  those  whom  "God  hath  joined  together,"  etc. 
Custom  only  prescribes  the  welding  process.  There 
are  many  unions  God  would  be  ashamed  to 
acknowledge  or  give  his  sanction  if  the  matter 
were  left  to  divine  wisdom. 

*  * 

The  cry  of  my  heart  I  send  to  thy  portal; 
Listen,   oh  Memory,  to  the  prayer  of  a  mortal, 
Heed  my  petition,  I  ask  and  implore  thee — 
Give  back,  I  entreat,  my  loved  ones  to  me. 


-35  — 


MEMORY'S          PQTLATCHES 

In  Italy. 

Where  the  days  were  as  white  pearls,  loved 
and  prized.  With  soft,  sweet,  aromatic  whisper- 
ing winds  that  told  tales  of  bygone  loves  and 
brought  truant  tales  of  soft,  low  pleadings  from 
the  cool  recesses  of  the  Borghese  Gardens.  Days 
as  when  in  dreams  I  wandered  in  the  gloaming, 
pacing  the  tree-lined  paths  of  the  Pincio,  or  stood 
in  the  shadow  of  the  ilex  trees  on  moon-drenched 
nights,  when  the  garden  hanging  above  the  Porto- 
del  Popolo  seemed  a  radiant  place  fit  for  a  new 
Eden,  and  one  not  suited  to  the  old  daring,  ram- 
pant, reckless  spirits  of  yore,  who  reveled  in  it 
unmindful  of  a  reckoning,  or  the  Lord's  forgive- 
ness. 

*  * 

A  Supple  Tongue. 

It  is  a  pity  her  tongue  is  so  supple.  If  she 
stammered  or  got  stalled  over  her  words  and 
phrases  there  would  be  less  mischief  and  scandal, 
and  her  friends  would  be  much  happier. 

*  # 

I  try  to  keep  the  Ten  Commandments,  but 
forget  to  count.  I  was  never  very  good  in  ad- 
dition, and  apt  to  forget  what  I  called  mournful 
numbers. 

*  * 

Woman  Speaker  of  the  House.  Why  worry, 
the  idea  is  not  new.  She  has  always  had  that  honor 
when  a  man  was  sane  enough  to  marry  and  install 
her  as  presiding  officer  in  a  home. 


—  36  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Partings. 

The  farewells  of  youth  hurt  when  their  hearts 
are  full  of  love  and  happiness.  But  the  farewells 
of  those  whose  heads  have  been  whitened  by  the 
frosts  of  years,  though  leaving  their  hearts  un- 
touched by  Time 's  coldness,  are  the  saddest  of  all 
living  partings. 

#      # 

It  is  a  fine  thing  to  possess  a  generous  nature, 
and  not  demand  or  claim  too  much.  The  first 
crow  in  the  morning  of  the  early  awakened  rooster 
does  not  mean  that  the  day  is  his  exclusively  be- 
cause he  got  ahead  of  the  others. 

He         * 

If  we  can  deceive  ourselves  even  a  part  of  the 
time  and  forget  the  harmful  faults  we  possess, 
but  usually  find  in  others,  it  is  well.  However 
we  may  lose  faith  in  humanity  as  we  view  it 
passing  by,  we  must,  of  necessity,  keep  faith  in 
ourselves.  Be  lazy  at  times — God  rested  after 
making  the  world — but  not  slothful;  work  to 
achieve,  not  simply  to  be  doing  something.  The 
snake  is  belied.  Slander  and  a  vile  tongue  be- 
long to  two-legged  creatures.  Its:  fangs  are 
poisonous  and  hurt,  but  hurt  only  the  one  wound- 
ed, but  for  a  lie  no  antidote  has  been  found.  Be 
truthful  to  yourself.  Do  not  imitate  as  do  the 
monkey  and  parrot.  Be  faithful  and  kind,  but 
not  like  a  cur  who  gets  kicked  for  his  pains. 
Finally  be  truthful  to  yourself,  judge  yourself 
honestly,  do  the  best  for  yourself  and  others  that 
is  possible — and  that  is  enough. 


—  37  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Old  things  interest  us  now  and  then  in  this 
mad,  machine  hurrying  age,  and  some  of  us  think, 
especially  during  the  Christmas  holidays,  of  the 
legend,  when  holly  berries  make  bright  our  homes 
— which  tells  us  that  the  berries  are  red  because 
Baldur,  the  white  god's  blood,  gushing  from 
wounds  inflicted  by  his  brother,  were  turned  into 
drops  of  blood.  The  gleaming,  vivid  berries  mean 
to  us  peace,  rejoicing  and  brotherly  love  instead 
of  animosities.  Unity  and  love,  peace  and  good 
will  warms  the  blood  in  our  hearts  when  the  red 
berries  brighten  our  homes. 


Life's  Underlying  River. 

The  great  river  that  flows  and  pulses  under  all 
our  life,  the  river  with  its  ebb  and  flow,  its  pas- 
sions and  turbulence  of  youth,  quiet  at  times,  like 
the  silent  river  in  the  Mammoth  Cave,  and  again 
like  that  river  flowing  by  and  under  Damascus,  a 
river  with  its  ceaseless  undertone  singing  and 
crooning  under  the  Street  called  Straight.  Under 
arches,  mosques  and  minarets,  ever  pulsing,  yet 
giving  to  the  earth  and  its  need^  of  its  fullness. 
So  the  river  of  blood  is  ever  flowing  in  our  veins, 
joyous,  sparkling,  when  life's  sun  is  brightest, 
rising  to  its  zenith,  when  the  soul  is  on  tiptoe  and 
life  seems  to  hold  in  its  infinity  all  the  hopes, 
longings  and  desires  of  the  human  heart.  Then 
deepening  and  broadening  as  life  goes  on,  quieter, 
fainter,  until  at  last  the  river,  faithful  to  the  end, 
sleeps,  its  mission  is  ended. 


—  38  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Ancestors. 

It  does  not  matter  greatly  whether  you  know 
much  about  your  ancestors.  But  if  they  had  love 
in  their  hearts,  if  they  were  honest  and  true,  if 
they  had  smiles  on  their  lips  and  melody  in  their 
souls,  these  assets  will  come  to  you  through  years 
and  years.  They  will,  by  their  magic,  c'ause  you 
to  overcome  much  of  the  objectionable  that  life 
forces  upon  you  as  a  wayfarer,  who  must  live 
with  faith  in  yourself,  and  not  be  too  dependent 
on  inherited  characteristics. 


The  Sacramento  Valley. 

1  '  We  die  out  of  winter  in  the  flash  of  an  eye 

Into  Eden  of  earth  and  heaven  of  sky 
Sacramento's  fair  vale  its  parlors  of  God." 

Cuyp's  green  uplands  and  Corot's  fair  spring- 
time paintings  are  beautiful  beyond  questioning, 
but  they  can  never  equal  a  moment  of  joy  for  me 
as  when  I  stand  on  the  scented  edge  of  a  meadow 
and  see  the  radiant  gleaming  myriads  of  flowers 
flashing  in  the  morning  sunshine.  Where  nature 
is  ever  lip  to  lip  with  youth  and  the  sky  glows 
with  ethereal  rose  and  glowing  beryl.  And  the 
enchanted  valley  indents  and  embroiders  the  Coast 
line  shadowy  and  amethystine  under  rose-hued 
waves  of  light  in  placid  content  resting  unfretted 
by  time — a  beautiful, 

i  i  Won  derf ul  land  where  the  turbulent  sand 
Will  burst  into  bloom  at  the  touch  of  a  hand. ' ' 


-39  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

£1  Camino  Reale. 

A  day  on  the  King's  Highway,  one  that  had 
action  and  movement  in  it,  with  winds  that 
crooned  sleepily,  that  sang  and  called  to  come  as 
they  rioted  among  the  foliage  and  flowers,  winds 
that  pushed  and  surged  among  the  tall  grasses 
and  heavy-topped  grain,  bending,  pressing  the 
green  sea  of  rustling,  waving  masses,  pushing 
them  downward,  then  lifting  them  up,  rebound- 
ing and  undulating  like  an  emerald  sea  in  the  sun 
glints  and  cloud  shadows.  Swiftly  along  the  road 
to  quieter  nooks  where  the  breezes  sank  away  to 
mere  whisperings,  then  was  heard  no  more — 
silence — the  day's  siesta,  rest.  Onward  later,  with 
changing  effects  past  fences  and  sign-boards  that 
seemed  to  bark  at  us,  they  are  so  noisy  in  colors, 
while  voicing  the  praises  of  certain  compounds 
that  are  warranted  to  save  you  from  the  angelic 
host,  though  they  send  you  to  a  purgative  purga- 
tory by  their  sure  and  swift  effects.  That  life  is 
made  bitter  and  nauseous  by  their  acquaintance, 
and  not  lengthened,  counts  as  nothing  to  the 
credulous  and  gullible.  They  are  in  evidence 
everywhere,  were  it  not  so  the  landscapes  would 
not  be  turned  into  horrorscopes  by  the  pestilen- 
tial advertiser.  These,  like  gnats  in  the  air,  are 
objectionable  when  they  strike  the  eye,  but  do  not 
deter  one  from  enjoying  the  sweetness  of  woods 
and  fields.  The  fascination  of  the  open  road  in 
the  flowery  forefront  of  the  year  is  an  anaesthetic, 
a  narcotic,  instilling  delicious  reveries  and  dreams 
in  this  region  of  natural  beauty,  where  ones  does 


—  40  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

not  have  to  go  far  afield  to  catch  up  with  heaven. 
Blest  with  visions  in  this  valley  that  touches  the 
snows  on  one  side  and  spills  its  wealth  of  flowers 
on  the  ocean  on  the  other,  where  the  trees  clap 
leaf  hands  applaudingly,  and  the  flowers  bow  to 
the  bird  music,  the  orchestra  hidden  in  leafy 
nooks,  sending  delicious  trills,  joyous  mimicry 
and  jerky  staccato  efforts  that  enthrall  the 
worshipers  of  Pan,  when  the  sap  begins  to  run 
and  one's  blood  gets  restless  and  rushes  to  the 
moving  or  going  centers  of  our  being,  and  we 
answer  the  instinct  that  leads  on  pilgrimages  to 
wonderful  places  in  this  altogether  delightful 
State  of  OUJTS. 

5{C  * 

Strange,  vague  and  touching  thoughts  come 
to  us  now  and  then,  thoughts  of  days  when  the 
Druids,  white-robed  priests,  cut  the  mistletoe 
branches  and  gave  each  householder  a  piece  that 
evil  might  be  warded  from  each  decorated  door. 
Thoughtfully  we  turn  to  the  prosaic  present  when 
the  mistletoe  is  reckoned  a  menace,  a  pest,  and  it 
is  banished,  save  on  rare  occasions  from  our 
homes. 

*      * 

George  Elliott  says  something  about  putting 
on  glasses  to  detect  odors.  I  do  not  feel  the  need 
of  glasses  or  anything  to  sharpen  the  sense  of 
smell  to  detect  the  odors  of  unwashed  humanity 
encountered  in  crowds  and  public  places.  They 
simply  rear  up  and  strike  one's  senses  like  the 
blow  of  a  hammer. 


—Al- 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Yellowstone. 

I  see  again  in  memory  that  incomparable  gorge 
of  the  Yellowstone  where  from  the  rim  I  looked 
westward  towards  the  sun  enthroned  in  sunset 
clouds.  There  were  colors  of  blinding  intensity, 
crimson,  emerald,  yellows,  in  fierce  and  soft  gradi- 
ents splashed  on  and  over  a  tinted  sky  where 
colors  had  been  caught  and  imprisoned  in  the 
wonderful  cleft.  Stupendous  torrents  of  color 
illumine  those  depths  from  the  pine  fringed  lips 
of  the  canyon  to  the  jade  green  strip  of  river  in 
the  shadowy  depths.  The  cables  of  daily  routine 
slip  off  unnoticed,  the  realities  of  life  are  forgot- 
ten in  the  marvelous  silence  resting  on  the  can- 
yon's crest  and  the  plac'e  was  hostile  to  conversa- 
tion. An  ineffable  peace  and  softness  enwrapt 
us  as  we  steeped  our  souls  in  the  beauty  and  un- 
changing sublimity  of  this  Nature's  stronghold 
with  its  enduring,  unfading  beauty,  like  one's 
ideas  of  eternity's  unchanging  glories. 

*       * 
Moths. 

I  have  outlived  the  winged  moth  state, 
and  know  how  to  distinguish  the  light  of  the 
glorious  sun  from  that  of  the  candle.  The  tiny 
flame  scorches  and  burns,  the  real,  glorious  light 
vivifies,  enriches  and  aids  life.  The  tiny  candle- 
light that  pierces  the  night's  darkness  allures  the 
moths,  and  in  the  light-shot  streets  those  who  seek 
the  intoxicants  of  life  find  in  them  burns,  scorches 
and  scars  that  sear  the  soul  and  burn  out  ambi- 
tions and  desires  for  better  and  purer  things. 


*•$- 

—  42  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

From  east  and  west,  north  and  south,  knowledge 
and  education  have  broadened  minds,  and  there 
are  many  who  have  slipped  the  bands  of  super- 
stition from  their  forehead,  and  have  thrown  the 
burdens  of  ignorance  and  priestly  rule  from  them, 
and  are  consequently  reaping  a  peaceful  harvest 
of  love  in  open  communion  of  universal  brother- 
hood. The  world  is  growing  better  because  of 
tolerance  and  the  desire  of  the  average  man  to 
worship  according  to  his  understanding  and  of 
allowing  his  neighbor  the  same  privilege.  Very 
different  now  from  the  times  when  His  pretended 
followers  tortured  and  murdered  those  who  failed 
to  worship  according  to  their  beliefs,  sacrificing 
those  whom  the  One  they  professed  to  follow  gave 
His  life  to  save.  Christianity,  what  crimes  have 
been  committed  in  thy  name! 

*       * 

There  are  many  people  who  do  not  know  how 
to  live,  who  do  not  understand  the  true  purposes 
of  life  or  care  to  learn  for  that  matter.  They  are 
like  the  birds  which  wing  their  way  from  tree 
and  vine  where  fruit  is  plentiful,  eat  their  fill  and 
have  no  knowledge  or  care  regarding  tomorrow's 
supplies.  People  who  say  the  world  owes  them  a 
living  and  think  selfishly  that  the  world  is  made 
for  their  comfort  and  Convenience,  yet  are  willing 
for  the  other  fellow  to  furnish  them  bread  and 
fruit ;  as  indifferent  to  it  all  as  are  the  birds.  Only 
the  birds,  if  destructive,  ask  no  help.  They  depend 
on  themselves  and  do  not  expect  others  to  hunt 
or  furnish  their  supplies. 


—  43  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Otherwhere. 

Many  longing  souls  there  are  who  have 
browsed  the  limit  of  their  tether  until  the  soil  is 
bare,  stale  and  desolate.  Who  see  ever  beyond 
the  length  of  their  chains,  the  arras  work  and 
tapestry  of  green  mosaic  meadows  and  glowing 
uplands,  of  countries  imagined  but  unknown.  It 
is  a  part  of  one's  inheritance  to  have  a  desire  to 
get  to  the  ' '  otherwhere, ' '  and  to  satisfy  in  change, 
the  unspeakable  longings  for  the  unseen  but 
wished  for  places.  Happy  those  who  unfettered 
have  been  able  to  see  and  appreciate  the  wonders 
of  this  God's  footstool, — learning  and  loving  it — 
is  the  very  core  of  existence,  giving  one  the  very 
best  of  life,  satisfaction,  knowledge  and  content- 
ment. 

#      * 

I  throw  wide  open  uiy  windows  and  let  out 
objectionable,  useless  things  from  my  home — 
dead  hopes,  aspirations,  jarring  and  discordant 
thoughts — all  go  out  with  the  old  year  that  gives 
way  to  the  new.  And  in  opening  my  window  to 
let  in  the  new  I  open  my  heart  to  the  good,  trust- 
ing that  goodness  and  peace  may  abide  with  me, 
and  through  me  others,  too,  may  be  helped  and 
benefited. 

The  Giver  of  Gifts  gave  me  one  of  inestimable 
value,  the  gift  of  humor,  that  has  helped  me  to 
laugh  and  smile  when  others  would  be  whining  or 
sniveling  at  the  ruts  or  troublesome  crossings  that 
are  found  in  most  people's  paths  through  life. 


—  44- 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Let's  drink  to  our  castles  in  Spain, 
If  they're  only  radiant  bubbles, 
And  the  beautiful  bubbles  be  vain; 
The;   are  empty  of  sorrow  and  trouble. 

#  # 

Illusions. 

Do  not  keep  in  the  well  beaten,  smooth  roads 
because  others  have  beaten  and  smoothed  them 
before  you.  Step  out  and  carve  a  new  way  for 
yourself.  You  will  at  least  enjoy  the  newness,  the 
effort  to  make  a  way  that  is  your  own,  and  exist- 
ence will  be  doubly  alluring  because  you  have  not 
followed,  but  led.  It  may  not  be  easy  but  in  so 
doing  one  becomes  self-centered,  learns  to  control 
the  heart  and  mind  and  so  keep  fresh  one's  illu- 
sions and  hopes.  Love  humanity,  do  not  condemn ; 
show  a  bright  countenance  even  when  the  frosts 
of  time  begin  to  hurt  with  coldness.  A  cheery 
word,  a  bright  smile  will  not  only  irradiate  your 
own  life,  but  will  be  to  others  as  stray  bits  of 
sunshine  breaking  through  the  cold  and  gloom 
of  winter.  A  joyous  heart  knows  no  age.  Then 
let  the  youth  within  you  make  itself  manifest  and 
the  years  may  come  and  go.  They  cannot  harm 
the  youthful  spirit. 

#  # 

Deliver  me  from  people  who  are  given  to 
throwing  stones  at  other  people's  front  window®, 
thus  showing  contempt  for  the  failures  and 
foibles  of  their  neighbors.  They  would  better  be 
busy  shattering  worthless  and  dust-covered  ob- 
jectionable evils  hidden  in  their  own  back  yards. 


-45  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Light  Unfailing. 

There  is  something  within  our  souls,  our  inner 
senses  that  points  to  an  unknown  but  hoped  for 
haven  beyond  this  life.  Even  asi  the  magnetic 
needle  through  storm  and  gloom  points  with 
unerring  truth  towards  the  fixed  unchanging  star 
—the  guide  which  fails  not — whatever  the  storms 
may  bring.  It  is  ever  so  with  us,  the  soul's  mag- 
netic needle  points  unerringly  to  God's  eternal, 
imperishable  radiance.  *  *  *  Then  let  death 
disconnect  the  wires  and  steal  in  unannounced. 
It  will  settle  all  vexatious  questions,  worries  and 
fears.  And  the  soul  will  find  the  harbor  of  peace 
of  unfailing  light  and  happiness. 

*      * 
Outings. 

Prom  vacations  in  the  wilds,  the  woods  and 
hills,  the  vacationists  come  with  longings  and 
waves  of  homesickness  for  the  crowds,  the  noise 
and  rush  of  screaming  trains,  motors  and  twin- 
kling lights.  The  smell  of  roast  veal  and  extras 
for  the  prodigals  are  in  the  air.  There  is  beauty 
and  fragrance  of  flowers  that  are  pleasing, — if 
not  growing  in  the  open — with  delicious  tastable 
odors  from  viands  telling  of  masterly  efforts 
which  are  highly  satisfactory  to  each  and  every 
one  who  has  money  to  burn,  and  in  the  burning 
runs  the  scale  from  expectation  to  exhilaratio: 
ending  in  veritable  orgies  of  abandonment  t 
desires,  satiation  and  inflamed  passion.  Compe: 
sations  for  the  summer  vacationist  are  thick  from 
restaurants  that  lure  with  music  and  the  tumult 


—  46  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

of  feeding  man,  where  the  goddess  of  gluttony  and 
i>ooza  is  in  evidence,  loosening  the  tongue  and 
softening  the  heart,  causing  the  devotees  to  un- 
burden themselves*  of  their  secrets  and  the  secrets 
of  others  entrusted  to  them,  while  they,  dressing 
up  the  dollies  of  dalliance,  forget  the  straight  and 
narrow  paths,  and  make  jogs  and  curves  in  the 
beaten  roads  leading  from  the  haunts  of  food  to 
the  halls  of  pleasure,  fun  and  frolic,  enjoying 
each  with  renewed  zest  all  the  more  for  being 
deprived  of  them  during  the  fancied  delights  of 
a  summer's  outing. 

*  * 
Death. 

After  death,  what  then?  Now  we  look  sky- 
ward and  heavenward  to  the  star-sprinkled  firma- 
ment. In  mansions  prepared  for  us  will  we  tread 
the  star-dusted  pavement  and  miss  the  soft  velvety 
nights  with  their  glorious  sparks  above,  toward 
which  we  look  in  adoration.  What  can  Heaven 
give  us  of  rare  beauty  exceeding  the  sparkling 
blue  dome  as  we  watch,  adore  and  love? 

*  * 

To  One  Who  Knows. 

I  am  telling  you  on  paper  as  best  I  can  and  not 
with  a  gushing  fountain  pen,  that  my  heart  goes 
out  to  you  with  love  and  tenderness.  Hoping 
life'si  best  may  be  yours,  that  the  peace  of  rosy 
dawns  befriend  you,  and  the  rich  warm  red  of 
sunsets  abide  with  you  and  the  day  and  night 
bring  you  happiness,  love  and  sweet  contentment. 


•47  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Fawning. 

Of  all  the  people  who  rub  the  fur  of  my  inner 
being  the  wrong  way  there  are  none  who  can 
literally  make  the  sparks  fly  like  the  fawning 
hypocrite.  They  are  beguiling  to  many,  but  unlike 
Eve,  I  seem  to  sense  the  presence  of  the  serpent 
and  realize  the  poison  is  there,  though  its  fangs 
be  sheathed.  However  sweet  and  flattering  words 
may  be  from  false  and  supple  tongues,  I  desire 
my  hearing  saved  for  words  of  praise  or  blame 
from  friends  whom  I  can  trust  to  praise  or  blame 
aright. 

*  * 

The  toiler  and  laborer  who  works  and  drudges 
for  us  deserves  gratitude  as  well  as  he  does  his 
wages.  Like  Tolstoi  I  believe  in  helping  strug- 
gling humanity  with  encouraging  words,  aiding 
wherever  possible,  beside  monetary  payment.  If 
we  are  not  forced  to  do  the  hard  and  ugly  drudg- 
ery of  the  world  let  us  be  considerate,  encourag- 
ing and  grateful  to  those  who  must  do  it,  rather 
than  feel  pride  and  self-glorification  because  we 
are  exempt. 

#  * 

It  has  been  asserted  by  some  physicians  that 
cancer  is  caused  by  jealousy.  If  so  why  has  cancer 
increased  so  alarmingly  in  recent  years?  Jeal- 
ousy has  always  existed  but  there  is  no  evidence 
that  it  is  increasing.  It  is  a  sort  of  mental  pto- 
maine, destroying  and  blighting  the  tender  plant 
of  love.  It  means  selfishness  and  hatred  but  does 
not  necessarily  mean  disease. 


—  48  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Venice. 

Where  one 's  soul  turns  with  longings  that  will 
not  be  quieted,  for  the  pictures,  the  churches,  St. 
Mark's  and  the  Piazzetta,  with  its  pigeons,  with 
their  gentle  carooing,  settling  down  softly  on 
ledges  and  sheltered  nooks  in  the  evening's  tender 
light.  One  yearns  for  the  colonnades  and  a  glimpse 
of  the  Doge's  Palace,  to  once  again  feast  one's  eyes 
on  the  fldme  and  burnished  gold  of  the  waters 
and  watch  the  changing  lights  glorify  the  tawny 
patched  sails  of  the  boats  speeding  toward  the 
Lido.  That  also  burnished  the  black  prows  of  the 
gondolas,  and  the  old  city  that  is  enthralling  in 
its  decay,  in  its  restless  waters  that  come  and  go 
in  soft  musical  ripples,  bringing  the  freshness  of 
the  sea  and  carrying  away  the  defilements  of 
humanity.  Ethereal  lights  that  play  on  figures  of 
saints,  prophets  and  apostles,  on  buttress  and 
cornice,  curves  and  volutes  in  bewildering  splen- 
dor; kissing  a  farewell  to  the  old  c'ampanili  that 
epitomized  Venetian  history,  a  reminder  of  the 
past  greatness  and  power  that  seemed  to  tell  of 
the  dim  ages  before  the  infant  foretold  came. 
Whose  bells  once  rang  out  over  the  unchanging 
sea,  the  first  hint  of  danger.  Fallen  and  restored, 
will  it  ever  be  the  same  to  the  Venetians  or  to  the 
stranger  drawn  thither  to  this  city  of  rest,  enriched 
with  endless  images,  impressions  and  sensations? 
Where  the  pukes  of  life  once  so  busy  and  pitiless 
ran  riot  in  the  building  and  making  of  the  old 
city  which  now  enthralls  with  its  decay  and 
languor. 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Wisdom. 

Wisdom  is  a  defence  even  as  money  is  a  de- 
fence— so  sayeth  the  book  of  books — yet  few  there 
be  who  seek  wisdom  as  a  defence.  The  pursuit  of 
money  is  not  considered  the  best  method  of  pro- 
ducing longevity.  Yet  the  "Excellency  of  knowl- 
edge is  that  it  preserveth  the  life  of  him  who  hath 
it."  Then  surely  the  pursuit  of  wisdom  is  worth 
all  endeavor.  It  gives  freely  from  an  inexhausti- 
ble mine  to  all  who  delve  for  her  treasures.  The 
mind  cannot  build  with  other  material  than  it  has 
in  store,  hence  the  need  and  efficacy  of  a  goodly 
supply  and  wide  range  of  material.  The  joy  we 
have  in  exercising  the  intelligences  and  our  en- 
deavor to  acquire  knowledge  comes  from  the 
desire  to  create,  to  build,  to  fashion  according  to 
our  ambitions;  also  from  a  sort  of  reciprocity 
when  one  understands  a  wonderful  piece  of  ma- 
chinery, the  strata  and  soils  of  earth,  the  growth 
and  expansion  of  trees  and  flowers,  we  seem  to 
possess  a  kindred  feeling,  one  that  finds  a  re- 
sponse from  the  thing  we  know  and  understand. 

*       * 

Man  bo'asts  of  his  strength  and  superiority 
over  woman  and  goes  swaggering  through  the 
world  unhurt  by  his  boasted  burdens.  Granted 
these  things  are  his,  and  the  gift  of  logic  also,  but 
armed  with  two  t'si,  woman  can  in  her  weakness 
gain  all  that  she  desires  as  a  rule,  with  tact  and 
tears  she  flouts  superiority,  strength  and  logic 
and  wastes  no  idle  hours  in  regretting  their 
omission. 


—  50  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Life's  Meaning. 

Life,  love,  joy,  youth !  Life — that  goes  on  gaily 
and  unlamented  by  the  young,  Life — whose  swift 
flight  is  often  the  dread  of  age,  Life — that  in  its 
fullness  and  bounteousness  fills,  one  with  inex- 
plicable joy  and  happiness,  when  its  waves  are  at 
the  crest,  is  indeed  a  fountain  of  joy,  but  the 
meaning  of  it — the  horror  that  clutches'  the  de- 
spairing heart — no  mortal  can  realize  save  those 
who  have  heard  and  know  in  all  its.  depths  and 
intensities,  the  meaning  of  the  sentence — "Life." 
*  * 

Stay-at-Homes. 

The  stay-at-homes  are  all  right — if  they  are  con- 
tent and  happy — but  why  should  they  criticise 
those  who  love  to  wander  at  will  through  days  of 
joy,  hither  and  thither  about  the  world?  The  bee 
buzzes  its  way,  errant  and  joyous,  with  no  appar- 
ent thought  of  home  or  the  hive,  yet  c'omes  back 
after  happy  hours  laden  with  honey  gathered  from 
bright,  sweet-scented  flowers.  The  bed  bug  stays 
at  home,  blood  and  darkness  are  his  delight  and 
delectation — I  prefer  the  bee. 


It  Might  Have  Been. 

Time  takes  the  sting  out  of  sorrow,  and  re- 
grets for  what  might  have  been  are  vague,  dreamy 
and  undisturbing.  Had  what  might  have  been 
become  a  reality,  then  indeed  regrets  would  have 
been  like  live  coals  amid  dull,  gray  ashes  and 
would  onlv  have  ended  with  life. 


—  51  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Ambition. 

Some  men  will  abjure  every  earthly  hope 
and  prospective  happiness  for  the  opportunity  to 
be  placed  in  the  position  where  they  may  rise  to 
a  point  of  order,  offer  an  amendment  or  move  to 
adjourn.  There  are  half-baked  politicians  elated 
with  temporary  importance  with  chanticleer 
pomposity  who  spend  their  unimportant  time  and 
the  state's  money  in  trying  to  give  us  laws  that 
may  redound  to  their  credit  by  regulating  the 
wearing  apparel  of  certain  human  beings.  The 
"being  enacted "  of  the  fussy  member,  the  pream- 
bles and  resolutions  sifted  down  to  few  words,  are 
given  in  this  lucid  style,  be  it  enacted  that  "any- 
one"— the  law  is  impartial  and  rises  above  sex — 
"shall  be  guilty  of  a  misdemeanor  if  the  hat  pin 
protrudes  more  than  half  an  inch."  This  is  as 
convincing  and  solemn  as  the  law  that  forbids  the 
"rich  as  well  as  the  poor  to  sleep  under  bridges, 
beg  on  streets  or  steal  bread."  Buoyed  up  with 
artificial  wings  like  children  learning  to  swim, 
they  easily  get  beyond  their  depths  and  forget  the 
smooth  ponds  from  which  they  wriggled  in  their 
tadpole  stage.  Their  wings  of  conceit  and  com- 
placency avail  them  not  when  they  get  beyond 
their  own  particular  pond  into  the  vast  sea  of 
intellectual,  sociological  and  economic  questions. 
#  * 

The  gates  of  fun  and  frolic  may  be  barred  to 
the  dyspeptic.  But  before  he  reached  the  gates 
he  raced  in  the  open  and  knew  no  barriers.  Just 
knowing  means  something  to  him. 


—  52  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Word  Painting. 

It  is  worth  while  if  one  can — in  writing — give 
the  effect  that  an  artist  does  to  a  picture.  It  is 
much  indeed  to  arrange  words  and  sentences, 
weaving  in  them  color,  perfume,  sounds,  lights 
and  shadows;  to  transform,  transpose  and  sketch 
with  them  pictures  of  places,  things  and  people 
that  will  enable  the  reader  to  see,  know  and  feel 
as  if  he  were  in  the  very  heart  of  unknown  places 
and  people.  Word  painting  gives  untold  joy  to 
the  writer  who  can  do  this  with  only  a  pen  dipped 
in  ink. 


Chickamauga's  Park. 

The  park  where  the  main  object  has  been  to 
restore  as  nearly  as  possible  the  field  to  the  condi- 
tion at  the  time  of  battle.  There  are  three  hun- 
dred monuments,  some  very  striking  in  bronze, 
granite  and  marble  commemorate  deeds  of  hero- 
ism, and  it  is  fitting  indeed!  for  nowhere  in  the 
world  has  there  ever  been  exhibited  more  personal 
daring,  unfaltering  courage  and  determination 
than  was  displayed  by  the  rank  and  file  of  both 
armies  at  Chickamauga.  *  *  *  Except  for  the 
grim  reminder  of  the  conflict  one  could  scarcely 
imagine  that  war  in  all  its  terrors  had  ever  visited 
this  peaceful  locality.  Now  the  ravages  of  battle 
have  been  effaced  by  nature,  trees  have  sprung 
up  and  covered  acres  devastated  by  the  scourge 
of  war.  A  summer  haze  lay  upon  the  land  as  I 
drove  for  hours  from  one  point  of  interest  to  an- 
other. The  Tennessee  River,  misty  and  dim, 


53  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

loitered  along  between  leafy  vine-draped  banks  in 
the  distance.  Farther  on  was  a  spot  where  people 
tread  softly — where  thirteen  thousand  Union  men 
rest  who  fell  in  the  battles  in  and  around  Chatta- 
nooga. Now  it  is  a  fairyland  of  peaceful  forests 
that  have  sprung  from  the  soil  once  blood-stained, 
showering  down  upon  the  grassy  sod  and  quiet 
graves  leaves  red  and  brown,  some  "  stained  as 
with  wine  and  made  bloody,  and  some  as  with 
tears."  The  vistas  were  mystic  and  soft-hued  in  the 
dim  twilight  of  the  wooded  avenues  as  the  sun  sank 
and  "Bloody  Pond"  gleamed  warm  and  ruddy  as 
it  did  in  the  engagement  where  fell  the  brave  until 
the  waters  were  red  with  blood.  *  *  *  A  glory 
that  was  almost  supernatural  rested  on  Missionary 
Ridge  as  I  went  down  to  the  quiet  city.  The  smoke 
that  hovered  over  Chattanooga  was  not  the  smoke 
of  battle,  but  from  factories  that  mean  enterprise, 
progression  and  contentment.  It  is  enough. 

*  * 

I  am  taking  a  large  slice  out  of  the  year,  appro- 
priating it  to  my  needs  and  find  c'omfort  in  the 
taking — days  of  ease — irresponsible  hours —  dolce 
far  nicnte  moments  that  are  sweet  in  having  and 
holding,  they  come  easy  and  I  am  not  defrauding 
others.  Hence,  feel  it  my  right  to  steal. 

#  * 

I'm  no  coward,  but  I  know  when  to  retreat  in 
order  to  be  able  to  march  forward  again.  I  have 
in  my  make-up  enough  of  the  antennae  of  my  orig- 
inal ancestors  left  to  feel  danger  and  avoid  need- 
less troubles. 


—  54  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Millennium. 

When  it  comes,  and  it  may  not  be  so  far  dis- 
tant as  some  practical  souls  think,  there  will  be 
but  one  nation  of  human  beings  and  there  will  be 
no  dead  languages  to  torment  growing  children 
and  studious  people.  One  language  for  all,  which 
will  retain  the  strength  of  the  dead  languages  and 
nationalities.  And  in  the  courage,  honesty  and 
sterling  qualities  coming  there  will  be  no  nation- 
alities but  a  compounding  of  all  the  good  of 
nations1  and  languages  that  now  exist,  and  have 
existed.  Wireless  telegraphy  and  telephones  will 
be  the  means  whereby  a  common  language  will  be 
known  around  the  world.  And  the  one  that  sur- 
vive® will  have  the  best  of  all  languages  combined, 
as  will  the  race — the  survival  of  that  which  is  fit- 
test, retain  the  idealism,  the  mental  powers  and 
virtues  of  all  existing  races ;  then  indeed  and  not 
until  then,  will  the  millennium  be  a  realization. 


I  have  a  crucible  of  joy  and  into  it  all  unpleas- 
ant things  that  come  into  my  life  are  put  and 
behold,  they  are  transmitted  into  glowing,  entranc- 
ing illusions,  and  those  same  illusions  abide  with 
me,  making  my  world  pleasant  and  habitable 
despite  its  counter  irritants. 


Fidelity  to  one  never  causes  paralysis  of  the 
heart  to  most  men,  or  a  tightening  of  the  liga- 
ments. Men's  hearts  are  more  like  rubber  bands 
— always  on  the  bound  or  rebound. 


—  55- 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Burma. 

The  Burmese  are  said  to  be  the  politest  people 
on  earth  and  from  them  not  only  France  but  all 
civilized  nations  might  take  lessons.  Burma  being 
the  original  land  of  women's  rights  may  account 
for  it;  because  in  Burma  a  woman  is  man's  com- 
panion and  his  comrade.  Unveiled,  untrammeled 
by  caste,  the  women  have  a  life  of  utmost  free- 
dom. The  home  is  dominated  by  love,  the  women 
having  equal  rights  with  the  men,  the  Burma 
divorce  being  simply  a  dissolution  of  marriage. 
Equal  rights  being  given  to  the  parties  wishing 
to  separate,  makes  a  husband  and  wife  more  toler- 
ant and  considerate  of  their  treatment  of  each 
other  and  careful  not  to  give  offence,  but  gentle 
in  their  treatment.  There  is  nothing  but  courtesy 
and  politeness  in  the  home,  and  children  are 
brought  up  in  the  atmosphere  of  kindness  and 
consideration.  *  *  *  A  girl  marrying  in  Burma 
does  not  change  her  name.  If  she  has  property 
she  retains  it  and  keeps  as  her  own  all  she  may 
make  or  inherit.  There  is  no  asking  for  pin  money 
and  no  ecstatic  thrills  over  new  hats.  The  Burma 
women  dress  like  the  men,  only  the  women  go 
without  covering  for  the  head,  the  men  wearing 
turbans.  They  live  placid,  happy  lives,  equality 
in  work  and  sure  reward  for  each  under  the  tropic 
sun.  *  *  *  Idle,  dreamy,  perhaps,  but  not 
vicious  lives,  in  a  land  one  loves  to  visit.  A  land 
that  draws  one  to  the  golden-glory  of  Pagodas  and 
green  shadows  of  the  mangos  and  papaya  trees 
where  they  worship  at  Buddha's  shrine,  happily 


•56  — 


M    EMORY 


POTLATCHES 


content  with  their  wee  brown  babies,  the  women's 
lives  are  as  different  as  if  in  another  world  than 
that  of  the  veiled,  degraded  Hindus  where  the 
horrors  of  cfhild-  wives  and  women  enslaved  exists. 
The  land  of  a  multiplicity  of  gods  with  never  one 
to  alleviate  the  condition  of  Hindu  women  who 
may  never  pronounce  a  word  from  the  sacred 
Vedas  whose  only  ray  of  hope  of  anything  better 
after  life  is  through  her  husband  whose  slave  she 
is.  Happy  Burma  with  love,  freedom  and  equal 
rights  !  would  the  world  might  learn  more  of  them. 

*       # 

Many  a  sensitive  temperament  suffers  beneath 
a  mask  of  indifferenc'e,  with  nerves  attuned  to  a 
pitch  that  keeps  them  writhing  and  seething. 
Often  at  variance  with  their  environments  and 
surrounded  by  those  who  do  not  understand  the 
passionate  cravings  for  love  and  appreciation, 
they  are  tortured  with  heart-hunger  and  soul- 
longings  and  no  physician  may  mark'  the  cause  of 
their  disease. 


If  one  might  summon  and  hold  at  will  one's 
pleasures  and  joys,  if  they  would  abide  with  us 
like  grief,  life  would  not  be  without  recompense. 
But  hold  them  as  we  may,  we  know  pleasures  are 
fleeting  and  their  glorious  brightness  is  soon 
dimmed  and  only  grayness  left  of  joy's  burned 
out  fires.  Tears  of  grief  shut  out  the  sunbeams 
of  happiness  —  there  are  no  rainbows  for  tear- 
dimmed  eyes. 


•57- 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Veneration. 

If  men  could  at  the  present  time  attain  the 
years  of  Methuselah,  then  were  age  worth  while 
and  man  would  be  venerated  accordingly.  Hu- 
manity lacks  antiquity.  A  century  counts  for 
nothing  in  the  rodeo  of  mundane  matters.  But 
think  what  an  unfailing  source  of  knowledge, 
interest  and  amusement  would  be  ours  if  we  could 
hear  one  tell  tales  dating  back  to  the  time  of  the 
troubadors  who  sang  in  the  charming,  romantic 
time  that  clings  around  the  knights  of  the  later 
middle  ages.  How  eagerly  we  would  listen  to  the 
tales  of  these  "finders,"  as  the  word  troubador 
really  means.  Of  their  wanderings  over  the  then 
known  world,  up  to  the  discovery  of  our  own 
country. 

We  would  be  charmed  if  we  had  Methuselah  to 
tell  us  tales  dating  back  for  over  six  hundred 
years,  enthralled  by  deeds  of  the  crusaders,  hear- 
ing and  marveling  that  the  troubadors  took  for 
their  model  and  method  the  Bible  itself.  In 
beauty  and  harmony  were  the  songs  composed  by 
these  sweet  singers,  that  have  come  to  us  in  mark- 
ed contrast  to  our  coon  songs,  rag  time,  and  nasal 
music  of  the  vaudevillians  of  today. 

He          # 

It  were  far  better  to  go  through  life  not  ex- 
pecting to  be  a  part  of  some  great  incident  or  acci- 
dent, but  rather  accepting  the  trivial  things  of 
which  life  is  made,  with  joy,  complac'ency  and 
fortitude ;  for  the  gods  who  rule  our  destinies 
give  unto  us  according  to  their  whims  and  fancies. 


—  58  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Springtime. 

The  almond  orchards  are  billowy  and  white 
like  foaming  surf  surging  against  the  base  of  the 
foothills!  which  undulate  in  green  mists  above 
them.  A  voice  in  the  distance  comes  to  my  listen- 
ing ears  yodeling  minor  melodies,  while  along 
the  road  plodded  Hindus  turbanned  and  silent. 
Wondering  perhaps,  even  as  I,  that  they  had  felt 
the  West  calling  to  the  East.  And  though  having 
answered  the  call  surely  feel  themselves  a  misfit 
in  this  new,  buoyant,  thrilling  West  that  is  yet 
young  and  friendly  enough  to  welcome  to  its 
hospitable  shores  the  aliens  from  all  lands,  they 
being  welcomed  by  its  people  who  are  a  part  and 
parcel  of  the  warm,  generous,  loving  spontaneity 
of  nature,  and  who  give  even  as  she,  impartially 
to  all  who  ask. 

*      * 

School  Master. 

God,  the  great  school-master  and  teadier,  did 
not  give  us  the  idea  of  two  realms,  one  of  the 
flesh  and  devil,  the  other  celestial  purity.  The 
churchmen  have  assumed  and  become  possessed 
with  the  idea  and  taught  it,  acknowledging  the 
power  of  evil  over  good.  Happily  science  is  cast- 
ing out  these  devils  and  is  giving  a  friendly  and 
beautiful  world  to  man,  and  is  making  him  feel 
that  in  its  freedom  from  evil  spirits  it  has  a  kin- 
ship with  him.  He  is  now  looking  forward  with 
confidence  to  the  future  and  trusts  implicitly  the 
power  that  brought  him  here  will  deal  justly  with 
him  in  the  hereafter. 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Land  of  Odin  and  Thor. 
The  memories  of  which  are  as  though  seen  in 
another  and  dimly  remembered  sphere.  A  vision 
of  the  palaces,  towers  and  fortifications  of  Stock- 
holm and  of  an  evening  when  our  boat  wound  in 
and  out  among  the  islands  that  thickly  dotted  the 
waters,  some  with  costly  residences,  ranging  down 
to  toy-like  houses  and  camps  from  which  came  the 
sound  of  voices,  laughter  and  song.  Scraps  from 
old  ballads,  from  time-worn  castellated  walls  and 
tumble-down  towers,  resting  on  the  water's  edge 
seemed  dreamy  and  strange  drifting  down  into 
this  realm  of  beauty.  It  was  dreamland  and  won- 
derland, for  it  seemed  unreal  in  the  misty  light 
following  the  setting  sun.  A  few  radiant  bars 
pierced  the  blue  mists  and  across  them  was  sil- 
houetted the  mirage  of  islands,  some  palpitating 
with  life,  and  glowing  in  one  mass  of  flowers  were 
ideal  homes,  others  lay  in  the  beauty  of  solitude, 
stretching  on  and  on  in  bewildering  beauty,  glow- 
ing in  light,  or  in  shadows  that  would  be  the 
despair  of  an  artist  however  skillful.  Cuyp  and 
Hobbena  found  such  mellow  evenings  with  broad 
stretches  of  wooded  island  and  of  waters,  where 
birds  winged  their  way  wearily  in  the  pale  gray 
"twilight.  Paint  odors  came  to  us  from  freighted, 
woodland  winds  that  riffled  the  long  grasses,  and 
ruffled  the  placid  waters  as  we  moved  past  these 
islands,  little  punctuation  marks  of  the  Baltic  Sea. 
A  new  moon  added  to  the  beauty  of  it  all.  Titania 
and  all  her  forces  were  out  and  it  was  dreamy  and 
beautiful  as  the  night  deepened  and  small  boats 


—  60  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

stole  from  the  banks,  at  each  prow  a  dim  light 
shone  like  a  glow-worm  while  strange  sounds  filled 
the  air,  a  commingling  of  rippling  waters  and  wind 
among  the  pines,  music  of  far-away  voices  and 
songs,  following  us  until  the  shadowy  outlines  of 
fortresses  and  castles>  faded  away,  leaving  only  a 
memory — one  that  will  be  vivid  and  sweet  woven 
with  its  legends  and  its  network  of  dream  places 
and  of  a  palpitating,  joyous  life. 

*  * 
Cedars  of  Lebanon. 

The  groves  indeed  were  God's  first  temples 
and  in  those  temples  what  sublime  thoughts  must 
have  come  to  the  patriarchs — those  leaders  of  men 
in  the  days  when  they  worshiped  God  among  the 
trees  of  Lebanon  before  the  Phoenecians  built  the 
first  temples  down  in  Tyre.  What  a  worship  that 
must  have  been !  amid  the  solemn  majestic  trees,  in 
the  early  mornings  and  sombre  evenings,  with  the 
dim  sky  showing  amid  the  gnarled  boughs  and 
the  red  fires  gleaming  on  the  altars  of  heaped-up 
stones  where  the  blood  of  beasts  was  spilt  and 
smoke  from  the  sacrificial  bulls  ascended  to  a 
well  pleased  god  who  must  have  seemed  nearer 
to  those  worshipers  then  than  to  us  now. 

*  * 

Politeness  is  on  the  wane,  it  has  been  said  men 
were  once  so  polite  they  would  bow  to  a  petticoat 
hanging  on  a  line.  Petticoats  are  not  in  fashion 
now,  hence  politeness  is  dying  out  for  lack  of 
exercise. 


-61  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

A  Reminiscence  of  Sitka. 
Sitka,  where  memory  loves  to  linger,  is  marvel- 
ous in  its  setting  of  shimmering  waters  and  crystal 
air,  with  its  distant  mountains  half  magical,  half 
mocking  in  their  aloofness,  possessing  strange  sub- 
tleties and  charm  in  their  remoteness  and  mystery, 
an  alluring  world  of  mountain  ranges,  of  tossing 
clouds,  landscapes  and  seascapes  of  marvelous 
beauty.  Memories  come  of  a  warm,  drowsy  day  that 
bursts  like  a  blossom  from  the  roots,  of  summer 
and  enwrapped  the  town  and  its  environs.  A  day 
that  lured  us  from  the  streets,  old  forts  and  Greek 
church  and  stolid  Indians  out  to  the  almost  tropi- 
cal beauty  of  the  woods  bordering  the  Indian 
River.  Woods  wherein  were  the  burial  mounds 
of  the  tribes  of  other  days.  The  water  sang 
strophes  and  lullabys,  steeping  one  in  the  very 
essence  of  calm.  There  was  the  tongueless  silence 
of  dreamless  dust  upon  which  we  rested,  and  while 
resting  there  came  from  somewhere — from  no- 
where— invisible  voices  sweet  with  unformulated 
melody,  but  calling,  calling — voices  of  dust  blown 
nomads  coming  from  the  silence  of  centuries  gone 
by  in  tones  that  thrilled,  melted  and  tugged  at 
one's  heartstrings,  playing  upon  one's  emotions 
like  the  music  of  wind-touched  memory  bells. 
Strains  of  music?  as  if  Israfil,  the  angel  of  song, 
with  his  heavenly  choir  was  hovering  in  the  in- 
cense misted  air,  and  sending  down  heavenly  melo- 
dies. *  *  *  Then  again  through  the  forest  aisles 
there  tfame  songs,  airs  that  seemed  more  like  chants 
or  echoes  coming  from  lost  voices,  elusive,  strange 

^•r35!. ^"  ~**- 

—  62  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

that  kept  repeating,  trailing  off  into  whisperings, 
coming  as  from  throats  that  sang  as  the  birds  with- 
out discord.  Sang  in  minor  cadences  of  sadness  that 
had  learned  and  imitated  the  wailing  wind  sprites 
in  dust-haunted  caves  that  were  filled  with  the 
pathos  of  moaning  waves ;  sounds  of  trees  swaying 
in  rythmic  motion  with  their  leaves  fluttering  to 
soft  puffs  of  zephyrs  stirring  them  gently,  fainter, 
softer,  quiet  and  breathless  silence.  The  witchery 
and  strangeness  of  the  far  northern  region  took 
possession  of  me.  Dormant  faculties;  that  had 
slept  perhaps  for  centuries  awoke,  and  I  re-lived 
primeval  days  entranced  by  the  sad  wailings  of 
desolate  beings  moaning  for  their  dead;  or  was 
it  the  wailing  of  lost  souls  moaning,  crying  out  in 
longings,  asking  to  return  to  their  loved  ones  by 
the  dim  river?  "Was  it  a  hypnotic  state  or  a 
dream?  Whatever  it  might  be,  it  will  be  sweet  in 
remembering  and  last  when  lighter  things  are 
long  forgotten. 

*  * 

Fate. 

Fate  has  shuffled  the  cards  and  dealt  out 
pretty  good  hands  for  me,  and  though  giving  out 
blanks  and  useless  cards  occasionally,  I  am  not 
complaining — a  bluff  at  time  works  wonders — 
for  what  people  call  Luck  is  very  often  only 
Pluck. 

*  # 

Petrified  ideas  and  principles  forsooth!  give 
me  the  elastic  kind  that  will  rebound.  Do  not  do, 
or  ding  to  one  thing  forever. 


63  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Wanderlust. 

Some  old  roving  ancestor  is  shut  inside  of  me 
and  gets  the  wandering  fit  now  and  then,  and  I 
simply  must  do  as  he  dictates.  Almost  uncon- 
sciously I  am  lead  into  the  spaces  where  Nature 
stands  tiptoe,  and  with  her  hoary  cfrest  wreathed 
in  cloud  vapors,  her  mirror-like  lakes  star  dusted 
in  the  liquid  silence  of  the  evening  that  is  alluring, 
enchanting  with  green  and  violet  colored  moun- 
tains that  are  etched  into  a  weird  gray  sky,  tinted 
with  rose  and  gold  of  the  departing  sun  god.  One 
evening  I  recall  when  a  forgotten  bit  of  the  warm 
afterglow  rested  for  a  moment  on  a  lone  peak 
which  seemed  to  sustain  the  immaculate  blue 
empyrean.  The  great  arch  of  the  sky  was  un- 
stained, save  here  and  there  wreaths  of  vapor 
floated  up  into  the  blue  were  caught  and  torn  into 
filmy  nothingness  on  the  serrated  ridges.  *  *  * 
The  air  was  an  inexhaustible  draught  of  priceless 
cordial,  invigorating  and  helpful.  Pure  physical 
delights  and  soul  satisfying  things,  with  delicious 
thrills  of  gladness  enthralled  me  as  I  listened  to 
the  sound  of  murmuring  streams,  little  ripples  of 
gladness  coming  from  the  silence  that  are  like  a 
benediction.  Nature  may  be  a  blind  force — but  in 
her  blindness  there  is  more  real  understanding 
than  man  in  all  his  wisdom  and  far-seeing  eye  can 
ever  show.  Nature  that  simply  obeys  a  higher 
law  than  we  know  of,  that  bares  her  bosom  to  the 
loving  kisses  of  the  sun  and  brings  forth  the 
marvel  of  bud,  blossom  and  fruit.  It  beckons  and 
calls  us  and  in  the  hush  that  lies  on  the  world's 


t 

—  64  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

uplands  we  may  pause  and  think  of  some  of  the 
mistakes  we  make  in  the  strenuous  life  below.  I 
ponder  and  think  perhaps  this  the  roving  ancestor 
in  me  desires  me  to  know,  and  that  I  am  to  know 
also,  that  Nature  teaches  us  that  we  crowd  too 
much  into  our  short  lives,  that  we  waste  strength 
on  trivialities,  and  let  slip  the  greater  and  better 
things  of  life.  But  that  we  have  time  enough  to 
do  all  that  is  intended  us  to  do,  if  we  only  accept 
the  fact  that  the  Creator  only  asks  this — whatever 
we  do  to  use  aright  the  time  that  is  allotted  us. 

*       * 

Simple  Life. 

I  wonder  if  those  who  talk  most  of  the  simple 
life  mean  it.  Excess  in  anything  is  not  desirable, 
but  there  are  way  stations  between  that  are  pleas- 
ant. The  Igorrote  is  a  living  example  of  the  sim- 
ple life.  All  that  the  men  need  is  a  pipe  and  a 
pup.  They  smoke  the  pipe  and  eat  the  pup — re- 
gardless of  anc'estral  tree.  The  Gee  string  does 
not  count ;  he  is  decollete  about  as  far  as  the  naked 
eye  can  reach.  He  is  so  simple  and  natural  that 
one  is  instinctively  generous  and  hands  him  the 
nearest  jute  bag,  and  gladly  turns  from  thoughts 
of  simplicity  and  pup,  to  dinner  and  crabs  that 
may  not  look  much  better,  but  taste  like  Heaven ; 
finishing  a  complex  and  gratifying  repast,  per- 
haps, with  one  of  those  cheeises  that  as  a  rule 
isn't  fit  to  eat  until  you  can't.  The  Igorrote 's 
simple  life  would  scarcely  do  for  the  civilized,  yet 
were  there  a  reversion  of  modes,  perhaps  he  would 
sorrow  for  us. 


65-, 


MEMORY 


POTLATCHES 


Puget's  Sound. 

The  fields  were  full  of  a  shimmering  mist,  and 
the  mountains  with  their  feet  dabbling  in  the 
sapphire  waters  wrapped  their  heads  in  a  blue, 
misty  gauze  with  glints  of  gold  showing  here  and 
there.  There  were  dream  islands  dotting  the 
waters,  little  flecks  of  earth  flung  from  the  Crea- 
tor's hand,  fair  with  Nature's  purity  and  fidelity 
and  the  soul  of  the  world  seemed  to  brood  over 
all,  blessing  the  opal  tinted  dawn,  giving  to  the 
pale  green  morning  a  welcome  and  greeting.  And 
my  soul,  responding  to  the  great  soul  of  the  world, 
finds  rest  and  adoration  in  this  garden  of  f  orget- 
fulness.  With  relaxed  nerves  and  brain  I  worship 
in  its  silent  beauty  and  wildness.  Among  great 
trees  and  logs  which  fell  when  the  "  Roman  Em- 
pire fell"  and  silent  they  lie  as  men  lie  on  the 
field  of  battle,  while  sounds  come  from  musical 
little  brooks,  hidden  away  from  eyes  but  blessing 
with  their  healing  musical  ripple,  ears  hurt  by  the 
blows  of  sound.  And  I,  dreaming  of  days  long 
gone,  forgot  myself  and  the  present  and  dream 
that  Pan,  the  god  of  the  woods,  was  standing 
there,  in  sturdy  solemnity ;  but  awakened  to  real- 
ity, I  saw  he  was  fashioned  by  Nature  from  the 
stump  of  a  tree.  Mosses  and  lichens  grew  on  his 
clothing  of  bark,  but  his  pipes  were  useless,  silent. 
The  birds  piped  for  him,  doing  all  in  the  musical 
line  their  little  throats  would  allow.  The  soft 
winds  touched  the  tree  tops  and  fell  in  gentle 
zephyrs  to  caress  the  frail,  tender  plants  that  dig 
their  little  root  fingers  in  the  moist  earth,  brought 

^$iS&t§i 


-66- 


MEMORY'S 


POTLATCHES 


to  me  the  subtle  odors  of  the  sweet  woodsy  things 
about  me.  The  winds  lift  the  feathery  fronds  of 
ferns  that  cover  the  scars,  on  mother  earth's 
bosom,  little  flashes  of  sunlight  come  and  go, 
making  sudden  impromptu  changes  in  the  green 
vistas,  and  far  above  those  blue  mists  of  chance 
and  uncertainty  where  live  timid  denizens  of  the 
wood,  Mount  Ranier  gleaming  a  giant  wedge, 
cutting  through  the  amethystine  veil  and  standing 
tip-toe  touched  the  foamy  clouds — no  whiter  than 
its  untouched  snows.  It  was  a  glorious  morning 
of  drifting  clouds  and  mists  lifting  up  from  a 
world  just  awakened  from  a  night  of  gloom.  Lit- 
tle wraith  wisps  of  vapor  clung  to  the  tops  of 
trees,  melting  into  nothingness  or  massed  by 
wanton  breezes  veiling  dimpled  hills  and  glisten- 
ing streams,  leaving  behind  dewy  kisses  that 
gleamed  like  millions  of  diamonds!  upon  myriads 
of  flowers,  and  its  moist  breath  on  soft  gray 
mosses  that  cling  to  the  trees  in  lacy  fashion  and 
?on  arcades  formed  from  the  clasped  and  inter- 
twined arms  of  mottled  old  trees.  Miste  that  roll 
and  toss  in  expectancy,  touching  the  lofty  pines, 
sending  down  streamers,  one  strives  to  grasp, 
elusive  and  tantalizing  with  insistent,  wordless 
call  to  which  the  soul  answers  if  one  has  the  love 
of  beauty,  and  that  strain  of  sentimentality  with- 
out which  life  is  barren  of  its  sweetest  joys. 


—  67  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Isolation. 

However  man  may  mix  and  mingle  with  his 
kind,  however  he  may  sacrifice  himself  to  human- 
ity, and  try  to  lose  himself  therein,  or  forget  in 
the  study  and  worship  of  nature  his  personality, 
he  is  in  a  large  part  doomed  to  isolation.  He  has 
to  live  and  to  bear  as  best  he  may  the  tragedy  of 
his  individuality. 

*       * 

Progression. 

The  ultimate  perfect  development  of  the  earth 
may  not  be  chimerical,  for  recently  it  has  made 
such  rapid  strides  in  advancement  that  people 
are  imbued  with  the  spirit;  most  especially  now 
that  public  schools  once  supposed  to  be  an  inven- 
tion of  the  devil  are  recognized  to  be  a  lasting 
institution,  and  one  that  has  driven  ignorance  and 
superstition  to  the  slime  and  morasses  of  darkness 
where  the  sun  of  knowledge  and  progression  does 
not  shine.  Also  no  greater  proof  of  development 
and  progression  has  ever  been  known  than  the 
finding  of  woman  by  woman  herself.  Bound 
down  by  the  iron  gyves  of  brutality  and  ignorance, 
imbued  with  the  idea  that  she  had  no  soul,  that 
her  only  cause  for  existing  was  to  serve  man  as 
his  slave,  his  property,  to  be  treated  worse  than 
beasts,  with  no  thought  save  for  her  master,  and 
no  right  to  a  possible  heaven  that  was  reserved 
for  man.  It  speaks  much  for  women  who  through 


—  68  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

ages  toiled  without  praise  or  commendation,  with- 
out thought  of  possible  happiness  here  or  here- 
after, that  through  ages  of  abasement  and  patient 
serving  she  had  within  her  that  which  kept  her 
from  utter  vileness  and  degradation  which  in  man 
would  have  resulted  in  bestiality  and  vice  beyond 
imagining.  Living  without  hope  among  the  big- 
otries and  selfishness  of  the  males  who  seemed  to 
think  that  they  had  free  passports  to  heaven  be- 
cause they  were  men,  it  is  the  marvel  of  marvels 
that  she  has  advanced  and  made  a  place  for  her- 
self that  means  everything  to  the  world  as  it  now 
is,  as  it  will  be,  for  she  has  found  her  soul,  her 
place  in  the  world  and  will  never  lose  it. 

My  mental  camera  has  proved  invaluable  and 
trustworthy  in  my  wanderings,  for  I  have  brought 
back  well  developed  pictures  and  impressions  of 
places  visited,  that  have  helped  me  keep  the  spell 
of  each  place  and  the  charm  of  the  original.  From 
each  country  are  pictures  indelibly  fixed  in  mem- 
ory that  are  a  never  ending  source  of  delight. 
Seen  through  eager,  optimistic  eyes-,  retaining  the 
good,  the  instructive,  the  beautiful,  while  disre- 
garding the  annoying  and  disagreeable  things,  I 
have  kept  the  essence  of  each  journey  and  found 
in  each  day  little  lyric1  interludes  like  the  bird 
notes  and  songs  of  children  and  memories  of 
Alpine  horns  mixed  with  the  downward  rush  of 
waters  all  have  combined  to  make  travel  a  happi- 
ness and  joy. 


—  69  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Palls  of  Minnehaha. 

"Among  the  clover-scented  grass 

Among  the  new-mown  hay, 
Among  the  husking  of  the  corn 

Where  drowsy  poppies  nod, 
Where  ill  thoughts  die  and  good  are  born 

Out  in  the  fields  of  God." 

An  idyllic  beauty  spot,  an  Indian  classic  hal- 
lowed in  song,  beautiful,  but  disappointing  as  a 
fall.  But  picturesque  among  aromatic  forests 
where  riotous  vines  festooned  from  tree  to  tree 
vie  in  rich  red  and  wine  tints  with  the  vivid  leaves 
of  the  sumac  and  the  yellows;  of  the  golden-rod 
and  maple.  The  sound  of  dropping  nuts  was 
heard  and  rustle  of  falling  leaves  was  on  the 
erstwhile  hunting  ground  of  the  Sioux  Indians, 
Chippewas  and  other  tribes.  The  French  voy- 
ageurs  and  pioneer  hosts  all  came  vividly  to  my 
mind  as  I  listened  to  the  music  of  the  "laughing 
waters"  and  mused  over  bygone  and  strenuous 
times.  The  blue  jays  scolded  one  another  in  the 
maple  boughs*,  the  robins  hopped  about  on  the 
green  sward,  their  red  breasts  making  vivid  blots 
of  color  against  the  green.  The  squirrels  were 
busy  storing  up  nuts  for  winter's  use.  In  hedge- 
rows and  in  woodland  paths  were  cluster®  of  blue 
and  white  asters,  the  fallow  fields  were  rich  in 
the  drifted  gold  of  Spanish  needles  and  golden- 
rod.  Everywhere  were  evidences  of  the  dying  o' 
the  year,  and  surely  Nature  is  sweetest  in  the 
dying,  and  sweet  are  the  memories  of  Minnehaha 
with  autumn's  mellow  tints  and  peaceful  scenes. 


**c~*  *-^  • 

-s 

—  70  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 


Egotism. 

Life  has  bestowed  upon  me  much  that  has  been 
satisfactory  and  worth  while,  but  not  in  such  a 
manner  that  I  can  attach  any  undue  importance 
to  myself.  The  bareness  of  egotism  has  created 
no  wide-reaching  deserts  for  me.  Disappoint- 
ments and  useless  wishes  have  been  mine,  com- 
endation  and  applause  also,  but  my  reasoning 
'acuities  tell  me  others  have  had  the  same  experi- 
ence, and  that  I  have  no  cause  to  be  vain  or  deem 
myself  blest  above  my  kind,  hence  I  do  not  feel 
isolated.  *  *  *  Most  of  us  make  life  of  interest 
to  ourselves  according  to  the  energy  expended. 
"A  charmed  life"  means  one  hewn  out  by  the 
possessor  and  rarely  do  we  find  one  possessing 
enviable  virtues  who  shows  a  knowledge  of  the 
fact.  The  shallows  ripple,  the  deeps  are  silent. 
Pleasures  and  wealth  are  very  often  for  those  who 
are  on  the  alert  to  admit  them  when  they  pause  at 
the  door — ignored  they  do  not  always  return. 
*  *  *  The  days  and  hours  are  dull  or  apt  to  be 
to  those  bound  up  in  self  and  passive,  negative 
beings  have  no  place  in  my  life's  boundaries. 
Weariness  and  dissatisfaction  of  the  egotists  who 
have  no  interest  outside  their  personality  make 
them  dull  companions  to  the  self-centered,  and 
there  is  small  reward  in  their  companionship.  But 
those  who  find  joy  in  the  deeper  emotions  and  af- 
fections, those  who  forget  the  faults  of  others, 
while  trying  to  efface  their  own,  are  sufficient 
unto  themselves.  They  look  with  rapture  and 
gratitude  upon  life  made  beautiful  by  utilized 
opportunities. 


^ 

u/  .«.  MShr. ; ; 

—  71  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

My  Garden. 

There  are  no  apples  of  discord  in  my  garden, 
or  fruits  that  are  forbidden.  In  the  calm  of  day- 
time or  in  the  night's  silver  sheen  of  moon  glints, 
peace  seems  anchored  and  rooted  in  the  delicious 
dream  place.  And  I,  forgetting  that  there  are 
temptations  and  dissensions  elsewhere,  wrap  the 
kimono  of  silence  and  sweet  content  about  me, 
knowing  my  garden  is  free  from  the  serpent's 
guile.  It  is  latticed  in  with  shining,  silvery  webs, 
the  webs  of  honesty  and  candor  against  which 
malic'e  and  envy  are  powerless.  I  create  my  own 
Eden  and  enjoy  it  without  restrictions,  and  am 
not  afraid  of  eviction  for  I  am  not  searching  for 
the  unknown  and  needless  in  fruit  or  trees,  being 
content  with  what  I  have. 


A  Postscript. 

I  found  you  the  dessert  of  my  life,  sweetest  at 
the  closing,  dearest  and  best  and  worth  all  that 
has  gone  before.  No  more  of  heart-hunger  now, 
no  more  of  aches  or  hurts — but  soul-satisfying 
content  of  mind  making  life  complete. 


This  old  world  is  wise  and  has  had  abundances 
of  experiences,  and  I  am  not  planning  to  lay  out 
and  macadamize  paths  straight  or  crooked  for  its 
inhabitants.  I  am  content  to  stick  to  my  own 
foot  or  bridle  paths  without  asking  others  to  carve 
a  way  for  me  or  to  follow  in  my  paths  even  though 
I  might  think  "my  way"  fair  and  worth  while. 


—  72  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 


Picturesque  America. 

There  are  many  people  in  our  Western  land 
who  visit  the  old  world  while  they  are  compara- 
tively ignorant  of  the  typically  beautiful  delights 
of  the  Pacific's  rim — the  last  stamping  grounds 
of  America's  picturesque  and  gloriousi  West. 
Europe,  which  is  growing  richer  every  year  in 
age,  a  quality  that  attracts  us  and  makes  us  wan- 
der in  softened  mood  among  the  ruins,  the  his- 
torical spots  and  art  treasures  of  the  world — has 
it®  foil  in  the  West — and  some  of  us  turn  from  age 
to  youth.  The  Northern  Coast  in  its  wild,  fresh 
youth  has  the  quality  that  turns  people's  hearts 
to  the  West  to  enjoy  the  freshness,  the  primeval 
newness  from  which  the  first  bloom  has  not  yet 
been  brushed  away  by  civilization.  One  realizes 
this  in  the  vast,  unmarred  picture  of  perpetual 
refreshment  and  beauty,  and  once  seen,  it  will 
linger  in  memory  when  others  are  forgotten.  It 
is  blissful  to  loiter  along  smooth  roads  with  moist 
surfaces,  a  thing  of  delight  to  pedestrians,  around 
bends  and  curves  that  lure  one  on  and  on,  to  dis- 
cover new  beauties  at  each  turn  in  blissful  un- 
eonc'ern  as  to  the  place  or  the  hour,  but  feeling 
an  unwonted  thrill  pulsating  along  taut  sinews, 
knowing  that  with  each  rod  of  beauty  the  germ 
of  elemental  happiness  is  multiplying  with  won- 
derful rapidity,  and  that  Nature  in  all  her  moods 
is  a  boon  companion  wherein  it  is  easy  to  become 
acquainted  with  one 's  self  and  find  it  sometimes — 


—  73  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

a  very  satisfactory  acquaintance.  For  the  best  in 
everyone  responds  to  the  best  in  Nature,  who 
gives  as  freely  as  she  receives.  *  *  *  Another 
hour  that  is  dear  to  memory,  was  a  sail  out  on  the 
waters,  which  in  the  sunset's  flame  gleamed  a 
moulten  mass  of  wine-red  beauty  with  forests 
showing  dim  and  ghost-like  through  a  blue  haze 
that  enveloped  them  and  lay  like  a  fleecy,  shim- 
mering veil  upon  the  waters — a  velvet  heaven 
full  of  stars  showing  through  the  haze  an  enchant- 
ed world,  the  witchery  of  it  filtering  into  the 
tissues  of  the  heart.  Then  in  the  east,  like  a  blaze 
of  pink  flame,  the  moon  gleamed  as  the  dusk 
deepened,  bathing  with  its  radiance  forests  and 
gorges,  touching  with  bright  shafts  the  roofs  of 
dwellings,  where  rest  the  toilers — and  those  who 
toil  not.  Bathing  in  luminous  sheen  the  innumer- 
able house  boats  and  bungaloes  snuggled  away 
from  the  world's  traffic  amid  the  silent  forests 
where  flock  the  city's  people,  who  find  rest 
among  the  wooded  fastnesses  of  the  island  flecked 
waters  of  the  Sound  and  on  the  shores  of  Lake 
Washington,  living  ideal  lives  in  the  short  sea- 
son the  climate  permits.  Along  wild  waterways 
I  see  lonely  birds  fly  by  ghost-like  and  silent,  past 
fleets  of  small  craft  with  their  sails  looking  like 
white  butterflies  hovering  over  the  water.  Anon 
I  see  strange  pointed  canoes  gliding  slowly  along 
with  red  men  paddling  in  silence  with  never  an 
answering  nod  or  look  in  response  to  salutations 
bestowed  upon  them.  Other  canoes  lay  on  the 
sands,  where  the  squaws  and  children  were  dig- 
ging clams  or  going  homeward  with  well  filled 


it  HM* 


—  74  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

canoes  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  lazily  drifting 
with  the  tide — a  part  and  a  fitting  portion  of  their 
surroundings,  with  the  summer  slumber  that  lay 
upon  the  land,  and  its  somnolent  silence  resting 
-on  the  waters.  The  calmness  and  laziness  of 
Indian  summer  enshrouding  the  landscape  in  its 
dream-like  loveliness. 


Cypress  Point,  Monterey. 

A  place  where  one  is  not  disposed  to  be  eco- 
nomical of  time,  but  enjoys  an  idle  restfulness, 
loitering  along  the  rugged  coast,  with  its  strange 
formations,  architectural  designs  wrought  by  the 
winds  and  the  lash  of  the  ocean's  wave,  notched, 
jagged  and  suggesting  the  awful  power  of  the 
waters  ever  surging  up  in  mad  endeavor  to  break 
away  the  barriers. 

Pictures  of  undefinable  beauty  show  through 
rents  in  the  fog  veils  that  wreath  dim  distances, 
the  winds  caress  and  soothe  in  soft  touches,  then 
sigh  themselves  to  sleep  among  the  hoary  trees — 
aliens  of  their  kind — that  are  wonderfully  im- 
pressive in  their  weird,  solemn  grandeur.  There 
is  harmony  of  color,  the  limitless  horizon,  lifting 
and  falling  of  waves,  the  chirp  and  chatter  of 
squirrels,  and  cry  of  lonely  gulls  are  heard  on 
the  jutting  crags.  Unforgetable  scenes  are  etched 
into  lines  that  make  pictures  of  strange,  lovable 
brightness,  and  the  voices  of  the  winds  crooning 
amid  the  cypress  trees  seem  calling  one  from  the 
tumult  of  the  world  to  an  infinity  of  rest  amid 
their  solemn  recesses. 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Fairies. 

The  good  fairies  that  scattered  the  seeds  of 
love  and  kindness  in  the  human  heart  did  not  find 
the  soil  responsive  and  generous  as  did  those  who 
were  entrusted  with  the  seeds  of  fruits,  flowers, 
grain  and  trees.  These,  scattering  their  inesti- 
mable bounties  broadcast  over  the  wide,  wide 
world,  found  earth's  soil  warm,  rich  and  true. 
True,  because  ever  and  always  the  seed  gives 
back  its1  kind,  cycle  after  cycle  the  flowers  bloom, 
the  trees  grow,  each  his  own  particular  kind  as  in 
the  first  sowing.  The  edelweiss  and  snow  plant 
cling  unchangingly  to  their  frost  borders,  and  the 
palm  and  cacti  are  wedded  to  the  sun  lands  and 
desert  sands.  The  pines,  whether  on  the  moun- 
tain tops  or  down  on  the  slopes,  kissing  hands  to 
each  other,  are  ever  the  same  pine  or  fir  tree.  No 
miscegenation  or  mixing.  *  *  *  The  poppy 
and  golden-rod  flaunt  the  yellow  of  their  species 
with  never  an  interchange  of  identity.  It  is  left 
almost  to  humanity  to  change,  to  mingle  to  lose 
identity,  not  remaining  true  to  any  one  particular 
type,  physically  or  mentally.  We  try  to  cultivate 
individuality,  to  be  just  and  true,  try  to  nurture 
good  thoughts  and  high  aspirations,  try  to  be 
steadfast  in  our  loves,  friendships  and  associa- 
tions, yet  each  one  knows  deep  down  in  his  heart 
that  a  word  or  look  not  according  to  his  liking 
will  change  the  mental  status  in  a  moment's  time 
and  that  hate  or  dislike  is  ever  ready  and  on  the 
alert  to  spring  into  vigorous  action  downing  the 
better  emotions.  This  probably  explains  our  wor- 


—  76- 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

ship  of  Nature.  For  the  dear  Mother  Earth  gives 
us  steadfastness,  blesses  us  with  her  never-ending 
wealth  of  bud,  blossom  and  the  fullness  of  the 
harvest  faithful  forever. 

*      * 

An  Autumn  Day  on  Lookout  Mountain. 
A  day  that  etched  itself  in  memory  as  I  looked 
down  that  mountain  and  thought  of  the  battle 
among  the  clouds,  broken  into  deep  ravines  steeps 
and  slopes  and  precipitous  cliffs  where  four  thou- 
sand of  our  infantry  men  forced  their  way  up  the 
steep  declivities,  crawling  on  hands  and  knees  in 
the  fierce  blast  of  a  storm  of  musketry  in  the  hands 
of  the  enemy.  Huge  boulders  were  hurled  down 
upon  them,  the  fog  and  mist  helped  and — Jackson 
blundered — else  Old  Glory  might  not  have  been 
planted  there  as  it  was  later  on  in  the  day  of 
battle.  Each  side  fought  with  bravery  and  des- 
peration, that  one  should  be  vanquished  was  in- 
evitable but  oh !  the  pity  of  it  all !  It  seemed  to 
me  that  Nature  was  grieving  over  it  on  that  warm 
bright  day  so  near  the  time  of  the  year  when 
thousands  laid  down  their  lives  in  the  turmoil  of 
battle.  Some  small  shrubs  attracted  my  attention, 
the  upper  part  of  the  leaves  were  a  rich  crimson, 
the  under  a  delicate  gray,  and,  fluttering  in  the 
winds  they  curiously  enough  turned  the  gray  side 
upward  to  the  smiling  skies.  The  gray  facing  the 
blue  of  heaven,  the  red  toward  the  earth  where 
the  crimson  blood  of  the  Blue  and  the  Gray  tinged 
the  soil  where  the  dying  closed  their  weary  eyes 
looking  their  last  farewell  on  such  scenes  as  these. 


—  77  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Eleusinian  Way. 

However  much  one  enjoys  Athens,  the  Parthe- 
non and  its  ruins — rich  in  historical  value  as  are 
the  whole  environs — one  cannot  but  wish  for  the 
days  long  gone  and  feel  a  desire,  a  longing  to  cut 
down  the  phalanx  of  years  and  travel  with  the 
initiated  along  the  Eleusinian  Way,  and  yearn  to 
he  one  of  the  procession,  carrying  baskets  of  poppy 
seeds — with  singing  and  incense — to  be  as  a  god 
and  incapable  of  tears,  holding  fast  the  soothing, 
sleep-giving  poppies.  Lulled  by  the  sound  of  the  _ 
sacred  water  running  from  the  cave  of  the 
nymphs,  listening  to  the  busy  chatter  of  the  sun- 
burnt grasshoppers  and  the  dreamy  droning  of 
honey-laden  bees  and  faint  chirping  of  birds  in 
the  hedges  and  groves  of  Daphne,  with  the  wind  V 
flapping  the  waves  against  the  rocks.  To  be  a  part 
of  the  procession  and  imbibe  their  myths;  and 
mystic  rites  and  know  something  of  the  Greek 
religion  where  the  "worship  of  sorrow,"  as  Goethe 
puts  it,  is  sometimes  supposed  to  have  had  no 
place  in  the  religion  of  the  Greeks — would  be 
worth  while.  Theirs  was  a  religion  of  pure  ideals 
and  conception,  a  religion  of  cheerfulness  and 
worship  by  an  untroubled,  unreflecting  humanity ; 
conscious  of  no  deeper  needs  of  the  embodiments 
of  its  joyous  activity.  Surely  a  religion  soothing 
and  helpful.  Helping  year- weighted  people  to  for- 
get traces  of  decay  and  gloomy  forebodings,  they 
worked  and  tried  by  a  subtle  alchemy  to  extract 
tranquility  and  beauty  out  of  life,  and  in  their 


—  78  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

world  of  fanciful  myths,  their  gods  and  goddesses, 
they  were  joyous,  art-loving,  life-loving  people 
one  would  be  glad  to  mingle  with;  enjoying  the 
company  of  their  gods,  myths  and  mysticisms, 
then  doubtless  find  contentment  afterwards 
among  a  world  of  real  men  and  women. 

In  Egypt. 

If  I  were  a  Gerome  I  might  give  an  idea  of  the 
violet-tinted  atmosphere  of  Egypt,  and  of  the  world 
of  strangeness  as  I  see  it  from  Shepherd's  Hotel 
in  Cairo,  where  life  is  seen  in  all  its  phases;  where 
British  garb  and  Highland  kilts  seem  strangely 
out  of  place  in  this  region  of  latticed  windows, 
of  turban,  red  fez  and  veiled  faces.  I  gaze 
at  the  donkeys1,  clipped,  painted  in  stripes,  looking 
like  circus  animals,  with  never  a  frisky  or  shy 
manner  to  accord  with  the  coloring.  But  plodding 
solemnly  along  while  the  donkey  boys  prance  be- 
side them,  clothed  in  long,  woolen  shirts  and 
striped  turbans.  On  the  Nile  what  visions  come 
to  me.  The  cradle  of  Moses  1  Cleopatra's  barge 
and  the  pyramids ! — solid,  not  visionary — show- 
ing dimly  through  shades  of  violet  hovering  over 
the  tawny  desert.  A  desert  where  one  does  not' 
miss  the  forest  as  at  home.  They  are  not  needed 
as  accessories  to  the  picture.  The  palms  with  the 
long,  bare  trunks  topped  by  waving  fronds,  are 
in  keeping  with  the  long  legged  camels  and  bare, 
brown  legs  of  the  people,  are  cut  like  cameos 
against  the  dun-colored,  silent  desert,  and  are 
like  phantom  pictures. 


—  79  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Poppies'  Lesson. 

Poppy  leaves  lasting  for  a  day,  tossed  by  er- 
rant winds  and  fluttering  in  a  sun-warmed  riot 
of  color;  poppies  that  bared  their  hearts  to  the 
caresses  of  the  sun,  flushing,  radiant  in  their  glow- 
ing beauty  that  held  all  the  glory  of  color  and 
richness  their  evanescent  beauty  could  show.  And 
though  evanescent  in  their  beauty,  like  brilliant 
dreams  that  float  on  the  waves  of  sleep,  surely  it 
is  not  in  vain,  for  Nature  makes  no  mistakes.  They 
are  Pagans,  flagrant  Parsees  worshipping  the 
sun  and  reflecting  its  glory — but  it  is  worth  while 
if  only  for  a  day  to  be  like  a  Parsee — a  poppy — 
and  unfold  one's  heart  and  feel  the  beauty,  the 
warmth,  power  and  glamour  of  the  god  of  love. 
If  that  fails  and  the  heart  does  not  know  of  the 
unfolding  and  wondrous  power,  then  life's  best 
and  greatest  gift  has  gone  astray.  If  love  has 
failed,  then  let  Atropos  come  through  the  sun 
glints  or  moonbeams,  and  with  scissors  cut  the 
golden  threads  of  life — for  it  is  not  worth  the 
living. 

*      * 

The  debt  of  gratitude  I  owe  may  be  outlawed 
by  the  statute  of  limitations  long  ago,  but  there 
is  a  natural  law  that  knows  no  limitation,  that 
time  can  never  change  or  outlaw — the  law  of 
loyalty  and  love  to  my  friends.  And  you,  friend 
of  mine,  can  never  be  so  far  away,  please  God, 
that  my  love,  trust  and  gratitude  cannot  reach 
you. 


—  80  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 


In  the  Valley  of  the  Jordan. 

"Content  to  know  the  journey  is  not  long, 
That  soon  though  we  depart  or  stray  a-wrong, 
The  c'aravan  is  creeping  toward  the  goal 
And  we  have  cheered  the  noon  halt  with  a  song." 

Having  seen  I  can  never  forget  the  strange- 
Bess  of  the  motley  throngs  of  people,  the  long 
lines  of  heavily  burdened  camels,  the  insistent, 
persistent  noises  and  conglomeration  of  men,  of 
languages  and  races  strangely  crossing  and  re- 
crossing  in  vivid  confusion.  Again  as  in  a  vision 
I  see  men  in  long,  flowing  robes  looking  like 
bronze  statues  on  magnificent  Arabian  steeds, 
with  lances  at  rest  and  arms  upraised  praying  to 
Allah,  with  faces  uplifted  to  the  skies,  are  strange- 
ly fitting  in  the  lonely  wilderness — human,  yet 
mysterious  and  in  keeping  with  the  broken  towers, 
ruined  arches,  crumbling  minarets  and  dusky 
Bedouin  tents  that  seemed  unreal,  filling  one  with 
a  sense  of  remoteness  and  desolation. 

And  stranger  still,  from  unseen  spaces,  came 
the  cry,  "Allah,  God  of  my  Father's  and  God  of 
my  own,  hear  thou  the  cry  of  my  heart. ' '  Thrilling, 
touching  the  heart-strings  as  it  came  from  the 
desert  that  spread  out  into  infinity;  fascinating 
in  its  loneliness  and  impenetrable  depths  of  wick- 
edness, misery  and  gloom  that  was  like  crime  in 
its  sheer  desolation — that  was  like  the  outer  dark- 
ness spoken  of  in  the  Bible. 

The  stars  burned  low  above  the  tents,  from 
which  peered  swarthy  Bedouin  faces;  dogs  were 
barking,  camels  were  resting  under  their  heavy 

~~"  "' 


—  81  — 


E   M  O 




RY'S    POTLATCHES 


burdens  by  the  tents,  while  inside  were  the 
women,  children  and  horses.  Squalor  and  filth 
lay  like  a^  curse  about  me,  the  heritage  of  the 
desert;  dreariness,  harshness  and  privations  were 
theirs  ;  they  seemed  a  black  spot  —  God's  mistake  in 
the  plan  of  creation.  Wandering  in  earth's  deso- 
late spaces  the  region  of  drifting  sands,  of  sun- 
burnt ways  of  the  wilderness,  where  life  and  its 
necessities  are  traversed  by  paths  along  which 
are  glistening  bones  of  things  that  found  oblivion 
in  the  arid  wastes.  Scorched  by  the  east  winds 
that  have  made  havoc  in  the  region  of  Jericho 
ever  since  the  beginning. 

Encased  in  their  pride  of  worship  the  Mo- 
hammedan looks  with  measureless  hatred  upon 
one  of  our  creed,  and,  proud  of  their  belief  in 
Allah  and  his  right  dealing  with  them,  they  are 
ever  ready  to  kill  or  plunder  an  unbeliever.  What- 
ever their  beliefs,  one  can  but  respect  a  religion 
that  is  as  unlike  our  half-hearted  prayers  as  our 
lives,  our  aims  and  aspirations  are  from  the  mys- 
tical lives  they  lead.  That  makes  them  carry  their 
prayer  rugs  with  them,  whereon  they  prostrate 
themselves  and  send  forth  invocations  from  desert 
places,  from  house-tops  and  minarets  above  roofs, 
own  to  sleeping  palms  below. 

Unconsciously  I  found  myself  repeating  some- 
thing from  the  ancient  Aryan  scriptures.  "In  the 
beginning  there  arose  the  source  of  golden  light. 
He  was  the  only  Lord  of  all,  all  that  is,  whose 
shadow  is  immortality,  whose  shadow  is  death." 
Surely  the  shadow  of  death  rests  by  the  Dead  Sea 
and  on  phantom-like  Nebo.  Where  are  the  tribes 


—  82-, 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

of  other  days  ?  They  are  blotted  from  the  face  of 
the  earth,  and  there  remains  only  these  dusky 
wanderers,  and  for  them  ineffable  pathos  and 
sadness,  too,  hopeless  for  consolation. 


A  Message. 

If  I  had  the  wishing  hat  of  Fortunates  I  would 
wish  to  be  with  you.  I  should  not  care  where  or 
what  the  place  might  be — if  only  with  you!  Then 
the  hat  might  be  tossed  into  space,  and  nevermore 
would  I  care  to  find  it.  The  curtains  of  yesterday 
would  drop  down  and  those  of  tomorrow  roll  up, 
and  in  the  sanctuary  of  your  presence  I  would 
seek  no  otherwhere,  and  would  not  plead  with  the 
gods  for  a  kingdom  to  rule.  For  we  would  not 
tfare  to  seek  further,  knowing  our  kingdom  of 
happiness  was  large  enough  for  two.  And  the 
sapphire  dome  above  would  bless  and  comfort  us 
in  the  kingdom  our  love  had  created.  It  would 
belong  to  us,  and  we  would  be  in  possession  of  the 
"most  priceless  estate  that  God  has  ever  given  to 
mortals — the  kingdom  of  love. 


Fame,  a  bubble  that  blesses  for  a  moment  with 
ts  radiant  beauty  that  a  breath  of  envy  or  jeal- 
ousy blights  with  hot  breath  before  the  heart  al- 
most has  felt  its  balm.  And  love?  what  does  it 
mean  after  all  but  a  gleaming,  irridescent  drop  of 
dew  that  is  scorched  by  the  arid  winds  of  indif- 
ference and  f orgetfulness  or  turned  into  the  slough 
of  woe. 


—  83  — 


MEMORY'S 


POTLATCHES 


^LP 


Memory  Walks  With  Me. 

In  fancy  I  wander  in  lands  again  where  my 
willing  feet  have  trod,  and  whether  in  fancy  or  in 
dreams,  it  is  sweet  to  return  and  be  in  places 
that  draw  the  soul  as  the  moon  does  the  sea. 
Often  I  thus  walk  through  the  matchless  scenery 
along  the  crescent-shaped  bay  and  on  the  heights 
at  Castellamare  where  Tasso  once  walked,  and  feel 
as  did  he  while  looking  at  the  beautiful,  unchang- 
ing panorama  spread  out  before  me — that  "Nature 
alone  has  eternal  youth."  For  I  see  and  enjoy 
the  same  scenes  that  while  ever  new  and  engross- 
ing in  tints  and  coloring,  yet  is  ever  unchanged  in 
contour  and  form. 

In  fancy  I  hear  the  rythm  of  waters  laving  the 
shore  along  the  Esplanade  at  Amalfi  mixed  and 
intermingled  with  the  strange,  fateful  and  en- 
trancing songs  of  the  Italian  fishermen  singing 
out  on  the  unrivaled  and  glorious  bay  from  whose 
celestial  waters  they  draw  the  finny  food.  I  look 
out  on  this  earthly  paradise  again  from  Pozzuoli 
that  Saint  Paul  saw  on  his  way  to  Rome  and 
thoughts  of  Nero  here  in  this  fair  region,  planning 
the  death  of  his  mother  are  like  blots  on  a  beau- 
tiful picture,  and  fancy  marvels  at  the  sin  and 
evil  of  a  human  heart  that  the  heavenly  beauty  of 
scenes  like  this  could  not  control  or  efface.  *  *  * 
In  fancy  I  am  again  in  Rome  and  push  aside  the 
heavy  leathern  curtain  and  through  the  incrense- 
misted  air  see  again  the  high  altar  of  Saint  Peter's. 
Again  I  wander  out  on  the  Campagna  and  pause 
by  the  Catacombs,  hearkening  for  voices  ' 

~ 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

might  perchance  break  the  frail  bars  of  sleep  that 
sever  the  dead  from  us.  *  *  *  Only  to  be  again 
conscious  of  the  witchery  and  peace  of  the  place,  to 
feel  the  mystery  of  the  past,  to  sense  the  pain  and 
joy  of  lives  that  knew  friendship,  love  and  hate, 
and  feel  one's  self  a  part  of  the  ruins  that  takes 
such  strange  hold  upon  one's  being,  bringing  the 
feeling  that  at  some  time  one's  heart  loved  and 
beat  with  joy  amid  these  old  but  new  scenes. 


Tamalpais. 

The  blue  coast  range  and  the  distant  ocean 
glinting  in  the  radiant  light  make  a  fitting  frame 
for  the  flower-bedecked  plain  where  were  splashes 
of  snowy  white  flowers  and  acres  of  lupins  with 
bands  of  anemones — baby-blue  eyes — mixed  with 
red  and  purple  blossoms,  veritable  rainbow  tints 
gleaming  in  gorgeous  colorings  on  the  earth  below. 
The  orchards,  one  mass  of  pink  and  white  bloom, 
looking  like  masses  of  tinted  snow  heaped  on  an 
emerald  carpet.  The  larks,  with  breastsi  vieing 
with  the  yellow  poppies,  and  blue  birds,  with 
wings  of  heaven's  coloring,  were  winging  and 
singing  their  way  through  this  paradisic  of  sweet- 
ness. The  skies  gleaming  with  ethereal  ruby  and 
glowing  beryl  above  the  shadowy,  misty  ame- 
thystine sea,  terraces  and  ravines  bathed  in  chang- 
ing waves  of  light,  elates  one  with  a  sense  of  in- 
toxic'ation,  the  body  is  refreshed  by  hours  spent  on 
the  heights,  and  one  finds  a  physical  and  mental 
tonic  that  is  strengthening  and  re- vivifying. 


—  85  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

California. 

Father  Crespi,  in  1770,  gave  to  California  the 
melodious  Spanish  names  to  places  where  he  en- 
camped in  his  travels.  We  ought  to  erect  a  monu- 
ment to  him  who  gave  us  these  names  which  make 
our  State  different  and  distinct  from  other  states, 
and  equally  condemn  and  change  the  names  the 
miners  gave  to  the  Sierra's  slopes,  gulches  and 
towns.  What  visions  the  old  missions  conjure  up ! 
How  we  love  to  muse  over  days  gone  by  in  visit- 
ing them.  Carmel  Mission,  the  valley  and  beau- 
tiful bay,  Santa  Lucia  Mountains  and  pine  forest 
and  Cypress  Point  are  crystallized  dreams.  Los 
Dolores,  "  Brook  of  Sorrows, "  choked  and  lost  by 
drifting  sands.  San  Juan  Capistrano  partly  wrecked 
by  earthquake  in  1812,  is>  pathetic  and  appealing, 
with  its  palms  and  cactus-grown  ruins,  its  warped 
and  twisted  pepper  trees  and  grapevines  that 
throw  loving  tendrils  about  the  adobe  walls,  that 
are  to  me  like  the  crumbling  mud-dried  walls  and 
houses  of  Damascus.  The  crude  paintings  of 
heaven  and  hell  are  dim,  the  bells  are  silent  that 
once  rang  out,  the  Angelus  at  eventide,  and  tremb- 
ling neophytes  were  brightened  and  cheered  by  the 
sound  which  caused  the  evil  spirits  to  flee  away. 
Better  so — silent  and  broken — than  the  sound 
from  siome  half  restored  and  wholly  unimproved 
Mission  that  bespeaks  the  effort  of  the  present. 
It  is  far  better  to  keep  our  ruins  and  preserve 
them  as  they  do  in  Egypt  than  attempted  restora- 
tion and  eliminating  landmarks  it  is  well  worth 
while  to  keep.  Rome  keeps  her  Coliseum,  her 


—  86  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Forum  and  Maritime  Prison  where  Peter  and 
Paul  were  imprisoned.  Might  we  not  as  well  keep 
and  prserve  the  ruins  of  Missions  that  dotted 
El  Camino  Reale  from  north  to  south  in  our  vast 
State  and  hold  them  dear  as  we  did  the  memory 
of  their  founder,  Junipero  Serra? 

r"J\  Give  freely  to  suffering  humanity  in  kindness 
and  sympathy  for  those  who  are  in  need,  and  not 
as  a  sort  of  "fire  insurance"  against  the  possi- 
bility of  a  plausible  purgatory  hereafter. 

t  < 

He          # 

We  of  the  free  and  untrammelled  West,  unre- 
stricted by  rigid  conventionalities,  are  happy  in 
living  where  we  may  use  our  own  judgment  re- 
garding dress,  moral  opinion  and  physical  needs 
without  considering  whether  we  are  violating  the 
ethic's  as  to  what  standard  they  might  belong. 
Each  soul  claims  the  right  and  privilege  of  at- 
tending to  self  first,  then  if  it  suits,  follow  the 
prevailing  fashions  in  costumery,  general  deport- 
ment and  good  conduct ;  and  still  not  be  a  pariah 
or  a  freak  if  one  is  nervy  enough  to  be  natural, 
as  we  usually  are  in  the  breezy  West.  To  be  one 's 
own  self  and  live  one's  own  life  according  to  de- 
sires, and  not  arbitrary  or  set  rules,  to  feel  the 
call  of  the  great,  generous  land  from  its  snow- 
crested  peaks  to  its  fruitful  valleys,  brings  out  all 
that  is  best  in  us  for  its  stability  and  steadfast- 
ness, beauty  and  grandeur,  uplifts  and  purifies 
from  the  dross  and  ills  of  life. 


-87  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Cliff  Dwellers  of  San  Francisco. 

Memories  of  an  evening  spent  with  the  cliff 
dwellers  of  San  Francisco,  a  radiant  evening  with 
a  tang  of  salt  atmosphere  from  the  breakers  beat- 
ing, dabbling  and  washing  the  feet  of  the  city  be- 
low, a  city  that  seemed  unreal  viewed  through  the 
veil  of  mist,  softening  its  brilliant  streets  and  tow- 
ering, scintillating  buildings.  Fragrant  and  mys- 
terious came  the  odors  from  unseen  places  of 
mignonette,  heliotrope  and  roses,  incense  wafted 
out  over  the  opaline  waters  of  the  island-sprinkled 
bay,  with  its  land-locked  waters,  and  shores  gleam- 
ing with  myriads  of  lights  coming  from  homes  that 
at  least  in  the  twilight  are  not  commonplace.  There 
are  many  beautiful  homes  with  the  winsome  grace 
of  the  Orient  built  by  those  whose  fancies  have 
turned  further  back  than  those  of  our  New  World's 
architectural  buildings,  and  have  fashioned  out  of 
the  dead  and  buried — but  resurrected  past — from 
the  cliff  dwellers'  homes  like  these  of  which  I 
write.  Fashioned  after  the  cliff  dwellers,  and 
though  safety  from  foes  is  not  the  need  now,  the 
paramount  idea  is  isoluation  and  rest,  with  the 
satisfying  pleasure  of  being  away  from  the 
crowds,  the  turmoil  of  the  street,  amid  visions  of 
beauty — so  nearer  the  stars. 

And  yet  who  can  fathom  the  strange  incon- 
sistencies of  life  and  the  vagaries  of  the  human 
mind?  The  fascination  of  fiery,  squirming,  elec- 
tric serpents  far  down  the  slope,  drew  the  cliff- 


—  88  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 


dwellers  from  the  heights  down  to  earth's  depths. 
Curious  Eves  and  indulgent  Adams  were  drawn 
from  the  heavenly  scenes  by  the  lure  of  the  ser- 
jhfent — from  Michael  Angelo's  Heaven  to  Dante's 
Inferno,  from  the  heights  to  the  city's  cellars; 
•  from  feasts  of  the  gods  to  an  orgie  of  beer!  In- 
effacable  pictures  and  unforgetable  lessons,  con- 
trasts that  will  ever  give  food  for  thought,  be- 
cause we  enjoy  things  by  contrast.  And  some  of 
us  came  away  with  hearts  of  thankfulness  to  a 
kind  heaven  that  had  been  merciful,  giving  us  the 
heights  instead  of  the  slums,  the  sunlit  valleys  of 
peace  and  happiness  rather  than  life  in  vice- 
haunted  dens  where  degradation  and  bestiality  are 
rampant;  where  the  innocent  are  lured  to  de- 
struction and  escape  impossible !  A  look  of  in- 
finite yearning  for  something  better  flashed  from 
the  eyes  of  one  young,  yet  old  enough  to  realize 
her  condition,  and  with  it  a  world  of  weariness  and 
loathing,  plain  as  though  spoken,  left  a  sore  spot 
in  my  heart  and  an  infinite  compassion  for  her. 
In  the  great  day  of  judgment  what  an  accounting 
there  will  be  for  these  souls  mantled  in  glory  that 
have  been  sold  to  the  world  and  soiled  by  its  mire. 


It  has  been  said  that  with  money  one  can  buy 
everything  but  happiness — a  pure  bluff!  If  you 
haven't  money  you  cannot  buy  anything;  without 
food,  shelter  or  clothing  there  can  be  no  happi- 
ness. With  these  there  can  be  at  least  content- 
ment, which  is  a  twin  of  happiness,  and  with  it 
one  has  about  all  one  can  expect  in  this  world. 


—  89  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Wanted. 

I  would  be  so  happy  to  have  you  with  me, 
friend  o'  mine,  that  in  case  of  scarcity  and  a 
crowd  I'd  be  generous  and  feed  you  off  my  own 
plate.  Not  so  with  one  who  came  unsolicited  re- 
cently, who  bruised  my  unwilling  ears  about  paths 
of  rectitude  other  people  should  make,  while  being 
indifferent  about  his  own.  Willingly  would  I  have 
consigned  him  to  that  place  we  read  of  where  he 
might  be  kept  busy  raking  cinders  on  the  trails. 
Truly,  like  Jehoran  the  King  of  Judah  in  Chron- 
icles, "He  departed  without  being  desired. " 


The  Pyramid  of  Cheops. 

Prom  the  summit  of  Cheops  I  saw  the  broad, 
undulating  desert  with  its  heaps  of  broken  ma- 
sonry, yawning  pits,  rifts  showing  here  and  there, 
and  the  number  of  smaller  pyramids  that  can  only 
be  appreciated  from  the  top.  The  Sierra-like  ridges 
of  distant  hills,  Cairo,  Mokattam,  the  Citadel  and 
glittering  domes  and  minarets  show  clearly  as  if 
at  our  feet.  There  were  the  gray-green  palm 
groves  and  the  emerald,  fertile  valley  which  I 
appreciated  for  the  first  time,  in  all  its  blossom- 
ing beauty,  beating  up  against  the  sands,  the 
living,  joyous  stretch  of  river  keeping  back  the 
drifting  sands  that  seems  the  very  embodiment 
of  death  and  desolation. 

Other  pyramids  appear  in  the  distance,  and 
there  were  Memphis  and  Heliopolis,  and  brooding 
over  the  country  was  the  mystery  of  death. 


—  90  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHEIS 

sun  illumines  the  hot,  dry  sands  and  the  territory 
of  the  dead.  And  while  I  look  the  shadows  of  the 
pyramids  tell  me  it  is  time  to  leave.  We  pass 
through  fields  green  and  blossoming  with  flowers, 
where  the  camels  go  with  such  heavy  burdens,  and 
the  long-necked,  black  buffaloes  work  in  the 
fields  or  stand  in  the  water  of  the  canals.  Men 
and  women  in  long,  loose  robes,  veiled  and  tur- 
banned,  add  to  the  strangeness  of  the  scene.  Twi- 
light— the  pictures  fade — the  day  is  done. 

*       # 

The  Sphinx— A  Reverie. 

In  the  half-light  of  the  afternoon's  glow  I  saw 
the  strange  mysterious  figure,  part  couchant  and 
partly  buried  in  the  drifting  sands.  What  strange 
days,  and  stranger  nights  have  brightened  and 
shadowed  that  passive  face  that  seemed  waiting  in 
silence  mysterious  and  sublime.  I  forgot  Time  as 
I  stood  before  that  mighty  face,  older  than  the 
pyramids,  resting  on  that  lonely  desert  where  no 
single  blade  of  grass  or  thing  of  life  is  known; 
gazing  ever  eastward  where  the  sun  breaks  the 
gray  mists  that  hover  over  the  silvery,  winding 
Nile,  and  the  moving,  animated  life.  The  breath 
from  fragrant  fields  is  wafted  up  here  to  this 
helpless  form  through  balmy  evenings  and  moon- 
silvered  nights.  A  touch  brings  me  back  to  Life 's 
realities,  and  I  am  led  to  the  kneeling  camel,  a 
great  white  beast — Rameses  II,  they  call  him — 
and  we  go  back  to  the  city  from  that  ghostly 
region. 


—  91  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Plains  of  Moab. 

From  the  Jordan  I  looked  toward  Nebo  and 
Pisgah,  where  Moses  climbed  from  the  plains  of 
Moab.  And  I  think  of  Him  who  was  buried  in  a 
valley  against  "Beth-peor."  Among  the  cool  lush 
grasses  and  fair,  sweet  blossoms  where  the  waters 
from  "  Ayun  Musa" — Springs  of  Moses — clear  and 
cold,  glide  down  from  the  mountain  side.  What 
peace,  what  ineffable  rest  and  delight !  After  the 
desert,  after  forty  years  of  wandering  in  sun- 
parched  arid  places.  A  servant  of  His  Master, 
the  great  Lawyer's  grave  is  where?  No  man 
knoweth — only  God  and  his  angels  know,  and 
may  in  triumph  tell  when  the  last  call,  "Come," 
is  wafted  in  musicfal  cadence,  and  death  and  mys- 
tery rfhall  be  no  more. 

*      * 
The  Nile. 

An  evening  that  burnt  itself  in  memory  when 
the  fellaheen  wended  their  way  homeward  under 
the  dark  shadows  of  the  palm  trees,  their  bare 
feet  as  brown  as  the  dust  they  kicked  up  on  the 
borders  of  the  Nile,  which  eddied  with  a  strange 
radiance,  gleaming  a  pale  golden  color,  then  the 
ripples  caught  a  gleam  of  fire,  shading  off  into 
shades  of  mauve  and  amethyst.  Wrapped  in  its 
filmy  veil  it  gave  one  the  idea  of  ethereal  loveli- 
ness and  voluptuousness  also.  Then  there  came 
the  sound  of  music,  and  the  words,  "Allah,  il 
Allah, "  traveled  over  the  waters  from  drifting 
feluccas,  throbbing  monotonous  sounds  of  the 
beating  on  a  daraboukeh,  tones  insistent  and  call- 


—  92  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

ing,  calling — the  East  with  its  centuries  of  re- 
pression— calling  the  West  to  its  sensual,  dreamy, 
subtle  barbarity,  entreating  one  to  wring  all  pos- 
sible joy  and  happiness  from  the  fleeting  years. 
Calling  one  to  dusky  temples  wherein  were 
strange  idols  enfolded  by  the  enduring  mystery 
of  Egypt.  Low  c'hantings  filled  with  a  strange, 
expressive  sadness,  a  murmur  of  voices — spirits 
lurking  in  the  shadows  of  the  Tombs  of  the  Kings. 
Crying,  sobbing  in  heart-sore  tones  over  desecrat- 
ed corridors  and  vacant  Tombs.  Is  it  from  souls 
that  are  supposed  to  return  after  a  thousand  years 
that  have  come  and  are  vainly  seeking  tjheiir 
bodies?  Do  they  keep  vigil  over  the  places  they 
love?  grieving  in  weird,  unearthly  tones  that  hold 
Something  thrilling  and  touching,  and  held  notes 
with  the  yearnings  and  longings  that  spoke,  too, 
of  the  cruelty  of  the  world,  that  held  no  healings 
for  grievous  wounds.  That  seem  also  to  demand 
of  one  to  get  the  best  of  life — Pagan,  unbeliever 
or  Christian,  what  matter — only  this,  to  enjoy  the 
best  life  gives  in  its  brief  space  ere  it  swings  out 
over  the  uttermost  verge  into  the  mysteries  un- 
solved. 


r    // 


I  am  a  firm  believer  in  hygienic  principles. 
There  is  nothing  so  unhygienic4  as  to  sit  down  and 
be  content  in  doing  nothing.  A  satisfied  failure 
suits  me  not.  I  am  thoroughly  hygienic — I  believe 
in  action.  My  life  shall  at  least  not  be  an  effort- 
less one.  There  is  something  pleasurable  in  the 
thought  I  have  done  what  I  could. 


—  93  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

Battleships. 

One  does  not  look  for  battleships  in  the  woods 
or  in  sheds,  yet  I  have  found  two  ships  so  placed, — 
strangely  interesting.  One  was  in  a  park  on  Lake 
Washington  among  a  group  of  totem  poles  from 
the  Northland,  representing  the  history,  religions 
and  legends  of  a  race  of  Indians.  The  aboriginal 
battleship  or  quaint  Indian  war  canoe,  seemed  in 
a  way  to  have  found  a  fitting  resting  place  among 
the  trees  and  totems.  The  scarred  old  ship  was 
a  very  fascinating  relic  of  times  gone  by.  It  re- 
quired a  whole  tribe  six  months  to  hew  and  shape 
the  one  great  tree  with  stone  chisels  and  hammers 
— their  only  tools — into  a  war  canoe.  It  carried 
forty  warriors  to  war,  and  its  scars  show  the;' 
marks  of  battle.  It  is  the  greatest  relic  of  abo- 
riginal life  in  America,  and  in  looking  upon  its 
battle-scarred  sides,  its  strange,  uplifted  prow,  I 
felt  a  vague  regret  that  it  and  the  totems'  had 
found  a  grave  amid  civilization.  It  was  to  me  as 
pathetic  as  was  the  old  Viking  ship  stored  under  a 
shed,  which  I  saw  in  Christiania,  Norway.  In  this 
ship  the  Viking  Chief  had  made  his  last  voyage, 
and,  after  death,  he  with  his  treasures  was  sealed 
up  in  this  sepulchre.  His  oars  and  chieftain's 
chair  with  him,  the  prow  pointing  seaward  all  in 
readiness  for  Odin's  call  to  sail  away  on  the  beau- 
tiful sea.  A  wave  of  sorrow  thrilled  me  that  in 
the  interest  of  science  and  research  it  had  to  be 
exhumed.  And  mute,  torn  and  rent,  it  will  for  a 
few  years  only  be  left  for  the  careless  eye  of  the 
unappreciative  tourist.  Both  ships  stand  for  an 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

older  day,  relics  that  should  be  kept  inviolate, 
bat  vandalism  and  civilization  represented  in  dol- 
lars and  cents,  and — progress  as  some  call  it — 
tagging  on  like  the  tail  of  a  kite  to  balance  things, 
sweep  away  relics  that  cannot  be  duplicated.  *  *  * 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight  as  I  fol- 
lowed it  in  reminiscent  mood  until  suddenly  I 
stood  on  the  green  borders  of  Lake  Washington, 
and  in  a  moment  forgot  paganism  in  a  touch  of 
realism.  Red  men,  Vikings  and  antiquities  van- 
ished like  fog  wraiths  in  a  morning  sun,  for  there 
on  the  shimmering,  sparkling  waters  lay  a  number 
of  our  warships  in  the  harbor.  In  gray  massive- 
ness  they  rested  like  great,  floating  monsters  of  j 
the  deep.  What  a  vivid  contrast  to  the  scenes  left 
behind — a  vision  to  stir  the  blood  and  arouse  the 
enthusiasm  of  any  soul  who  has  pride  and  love  of 
country  in  his  heart. 

*4» 
•T» 

The  sweetest  flowers  do  not  always  grow 
closest  to  the  ground.  The  faint  perfume  of  the 
yellow  acacia  comes  drifting  down  to  me  as  it 
waves  far  above  the  roof,  and  a  perfumed,  dusky 
red  rose  is  peeping  in  at  my  window  that  has 
climbed  story  after  story  to  add  to  the  sweetness 
and  fragrance  that  comes  to  my  waking  senses  in 
the  calm  of  early  dawn;  blessing  me  with  the  in- 
termingled sweetness,  a  balm  and  benediction  in 
every  breeze,  like  a  breath  of  something  not  alto- 
gether of  the  earth.  And  I,  too,  like  the  pilgrims 
to  Nikko  in  Japan,  send  up  prayers  with  the  in- 
cense of  the  rose  and  acacia  and  tender  earth 
blossoms. 


•  95  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Sea. 

Perched  above  the  sea  and  the  crowds  of  people 
I  am  enjoying  the  first,  while  studying  the  latter. 
Childhood  and  youth  are  there,  some  building 
castles  and  fortresses  of  sand,  others  romping  in 
the  waves  racing  along  and  leaving  momentary 
prints  of  footsteps  in  the  wet  sand.  In  bunches 
huddled  together  or  in  detached  aloofness,  eager, 
listless  or  loitering  in  pleasant  conversation,  peo- 
ple who  crowd  the  beach  and  board  walk  give 
themes  for  thought.  One  among  the  crowd  ar- 
rested attention.  She  gave  one  the  impression  of 
swaying  lilies  as  she  stood  young  and  trembling 
with  her  feet  touching  the  waves,  that  were  gently 
lapping  the  sand.  One  thought  of  wayside  flow- 
ers apart  from  the  flavors  and  savors  of  civiliza- 
tion. Her  name  should  have  been  Narcissus.  She 
seemed  fit  to  be  taken  up  bodily,  placed  in  a  dish 
and  transferred  to  a  cosy  den  to  fill  it  with  beauty 
and  loveliness.  Into  a  purer  atmosphere,  away 
from  the  talk,  the  chatter  and  lascivious  watchful- 
ness of  the  men  who  were  busy  weaving  their 
spider-like  webs  about  the  innocent  and  unsus- 
pecting. And  most  of  all,  from  the  caressing,  octo- 
pus-like arms  of  those  whose  eyes  had  been 
opened,  who  had  partaken  of  the  tree  of  knowl- 
edge and  experience,  descendants  of  Eve  who 
knew  thoroughly  the  sinful  streets  of  Ascalon  and 
had  apartments  in  Gath.  The  Philistines  who 
were  clothed  in  purple  and  fine  raiment,  with  every 
instinct  enriched  by  knowledge  and  experience- 
gained  before  youth's  charms  were  past — welcom-  " 


—  96  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

ing  vice  clothed  in  tweeds,  goggles  and  automo- 
bile coats — and  in  the  welcome,  eagerly  offering 
innocents  as  incense  to  warm  vice's  cool  altars. 

*      * 

The  Lakes  of  Killarney. 

Where  thoughts  fly  back  like  homing  birds  and 
linger  there  amid  scenes  of  loveliness  hard  to  de- 
scribe. Where  the  wind  comes  fresh  and  pure 
from  the  higher  peaks  to  the  lower  levels,  and  the 
sun  sparkles  on  the  gleaming  lakes  dotted  with 
suc'h  dear  little  islands  that  are  clothed  in  trees 
and  verdure  down  to  the  water's  edge;  where  one 
is  struck  by  the  wealth  and  beauty  of  foliage  and 
undergrowth  we  on  the  Pacific  shores  know  noth- 
ing about.  The  larches  and  beech  trees  are  beau- 
tiful in  their  summer  foliage,  and  the  music  of 
birds  comes  clear  and  sweet  from  swaying  boughs 
and  leafy  coverts,  the  thrushes  send  sweet  throaty 
gurgles  and  little  jerky  spasms  of  joy.  The  saucy 
robbins  chirp  everywhere.  The  blackbird's  flute- 
like  notes  came  from  the  marsh  lands,  tiny 
warblers  from  the  dense  holly  trees  s^nt  little 
trills  of  joy  and  minor  cadences  that  hurt  and 
haunt  one  like  the  memory  of  some  dimly  remem- 
bered happiness,  making  the  whole  perfect  in 
melody,  song  and  rural  beauty.  Songs  from  birds 
and  songs  coming  from  the  boatmen  and  drivers 
jogging  lazily  along  in  the  jaunting  cars,  Irish 
songs,  Irish  wit  and  laughter,  a  quaint,  lovable 
and  good-hearted  people  they  are,  with  a  cfourage 
and  spirit  battling  with  poverty  that  commands 
unbounded  admiration. 


—  97  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 


Reminiscences  of  Jerusalem. 

-U  -     -  •' 
Words  c'annot  describe  the  mingled  emotions 

that  fills  one's  heart  while  walking  along  the 
Via  Dolorosa,  or  while  standing  on  the  old,  old 
walls  and  looking  down  the  slopes.  There  lies 
Gethsemane  in  the  shadow  with  its  gnarled  trees, 
there,  too,  is  Olivet  and  the  sepulchral  village  of 
Siloam.  Farther  yet  in  the  gloom  pitted  in  the 
clefts  and  rocky  hillsides  is  the  leper  village, 
where  through  the  ages  came  the  saddest  cry 
the  world  has  ever  known,  "Unclean,  unclean." 

The  place  overflows  with  thought.  Looking 
down  in  the  streets  that  are  steep  and  stair-like, 
dirty  and  miserable,  where  are  merchants,  vend- 
ers of  wares  and  beggars  that  plead  for  help  — 
even  as  in  the  days  that  knew  the  sufferings  on 
Calvary.  On  Mount  Zion  is  the  tomb  of  David; 
below  the  "Upper  Boom,"  where  was  held  the 
Last  Supper,  and  the  house  of  Caiphus  where 
Peter  denied  his  Christ. 

Outside  the  walls  one's  interest  does  not  flag. 
With  bowed  head  one  muses  on  Calvary  and 
wanders  along  the  road  where  went  the  three 
Wise  Men,  pausing  at  RachaeFs  tomb  ;  then  resting 
awhile  in  Bethlehem,  and  in  the  gloaming  look 
skyward,  and  starward,  from  the  shepherds'  field 
—  where  as  of  yore  the  flocks  are  quiet,  beneath 
distorted,  gnarled  old  olive  trees.  Bethany  ! 
Gilead  !  and  the  Moab  Mountains  in  the  distance  ! 


—  98  — 


& 

MEMORY'S          PQTLATCHES 

And  the  Dead  Sea!  a  gleaming  opal-tinted  gem, 
flashes  in  the  distance.  Night  over  the  Holy  City 
where  the  dear  Christ  bore  his  burden  up  Cal- 
vary's slope,  night — starlight — darkness,  medita- 
tion and  prayer. 

Point  Sur  Lighthouse. 

The  winds  came  strong  with  a  tang  of  salt 
from  the  sea  stretching  away  in  ghostlike  gray- 
ness,  a  gray  day  and  sea  when  everything  seemed 
unreal.  The  ships  out  on  the  moving  waters  pass 
on  phantom-like  beyond  the  vision.  I  hear  the 
booming  breakers  beating  relentlessly  on  the  rock- 
ribbed  shores,  and  almost  feel  the  resistless  ebb 
and  flow  of  the  strong  undertow  that  pulls  the 
waters  back,  back  from  the  rocky  cliff  where  I 
sit  secure  while  enjoying  its  strength  and  vast- 
ness.  Impelled  to  come  here  and  listen  to  the 
throbbing,  tumultuous  pulsings  of  the  heart  of 
the  world  of  waters.  Feeling  in  some  way  a  part 
of  the  wild  waste  of  waters,  as  if  in  some  stage 
of  far-off  existence  my  life  had  been  mixed  with 
its  turbulence,  its  strength  and  constancy.  It 
draws  me  to  it — even  as  the  moon  does  the  waters 
at  high  tide — and  my  soul  responds  to  the  ocean's 
enthralling  power  and  charm. 


—  99  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 

The  Big  Basin. 

A  place  where  one  falls  under  the  spell  of  the 
kineomatic  color  effect,  and  wondrous  tapestry 
of  glowing  colors.  A  place  where  one  merges 
from  indifference  to  one  of  high  thought  and  pur- 
pose. A  place  of  worship  and  love  for  an  eternal 
Beneficence  who  gave  this  place  of  delight,  re 
and  coolness.  There  are  faint  pipings  in  the  di 
tance,  there  are  whisperings  and  ssh-ssh  of  fairy- 
like  feet,  faint,  fainter  then  silence — silence  that 
seems  to  enwrap  and  bless — that  is  the  very  es- 
sence of  quietude  and  solemnity  stealing  into  one 's 
soul  while  resting  under  the  great  trees  that  stand 
tip-toe  touching  the  foamy,  rose-tinted  clouds  with 
applauding  hands. 

A  place  where  the  wind  breathes  in  long,  lazy 
sighs  and  the  vines,  wine-red,  and  flecked  with 
Nature's  paint  brush,  beckon  one  along  blazoned 
ways.  No  cathedral  ever  equalled  in  solemnity 
and  beauty  these  Anaks  of  the  redwoods  with 
their  interlacing  boughs  and  aisles  misty,  dim  and 
redolent  with  nature 's  incense  that  seemed  to  say 
peace  be  with  you. 

These  great,  brooding,  druidical  trees,  speak- 
ing of  centuries  that  have  come  and  gone,  that 
were  here  before  the  first  Gothic  arch  reare 
itself  upward,  had  joined  their  branches  arch- 
wise and  through  their  intermingled  boughs  an* 
eaves,  let  the  gold  of  sunshine  and  silver  of 


MEMORY'S        ,P  O/^,  Li'A  T''c:  ri'ES 

moonbeams,  filter  through  them  in  softened  beau- 
ty down  to  an  ideal  world  of  infinite  tenderness 
and  brooding  protectiveness  that  stirred  the  soul 
into  a  recognized  presence  of  the  Eternal. 


Plants  are  much  like  human  beings — some  are 
content  to  nestle  within  their  boundary  line  or  lim- 
itations, others  reach  out  like  the  bougainvillea 
and  peep  at  the  world,  spurning  barriers.  In  riot- 
ous disorder  they  overcome  decency,  order  or 
boundaries;  spilling  over  trellises  and  old  stone 
walls,  they  flaunt  to  the  outside  world  their  wealth 
of  color,  bloom  and  beauty.  If  it  is  warmth,  free- 
dom and  sunshine  they  seek,  be  they  plants  or 
human  beings,  why  not?  Is  it  perverse  human 
nature  that  makes  one  pine  for  something  other 
than  we  have,  causing  us  to  yearn  for  the  other 
side  of  the  barrier,  wishing  for  the  shadowy  un- 
known dangers  and  delights  that  lie  always  in 
that  unknown,  untraveled  space  beyond  us?  Is  it 
perversity  or  plain  plant  nature  that  makes  them 
aspire,  run  riot  and  flaunt  their  gorgeousness  to 
the  beholder  and,  bursting  their  seed-pods,  send 
the  tiny  seeds  winging  their  way  to  unknown 
places  where  they  find  in  the  warm  earth  a  wel- 
come, and  thus  scattered,  beautify  wherever  they 
grow. 


—  101  — 


M   E   M   O   R  Y   '   S          POTLATCHES 

In  the  Sierras. 
Idling  away  hours  when  the  time  card  seemed 
drawn  on  a  limitless  future,  forgetful  of  everyday 
life  in  the  magic  of  the  untrodden  mountain 
spaces,  feeling  the  purity  of  the  heights,  a  heart 
and  soul  infiltration  sifts  into  one's  being 
through  the  benign  influence  of  the  mountains. 
Away  from  the  lower  levels  where  the  earth  is 
poisoned  by  humanity,  from  the  fever  of  unrest, 
the  blackened  vapors,  the  dust  and  soot  of  traffic 
and  having  in  exchange  the  odorous  winds  that 
play  soft,  sweet,  nameless  melodies  while  bringing 
the  breath  of  pines,  and  the  flowers  that  bloom  in 
beauty  where  no  destroying,  aimless  feet  have 
trod.  Lured  to  heavenly  rest  by  the  call  of  soft, 
woodland  murmurings,  the  hurry  of  printless  feet, 
of  timid  denizens  of  this  fairyland  by  the  sweet 
applause  of  countless  leaf  hands,  it  is  surely  worth 
while  to  live  near  the  heart  of  nature  rather  than 
wear  out  one's  short  life  in  the  world's  levels 
seeking  for  supremacy,  money  and  position. 

*      * 
The  Roman  Campagna. 

Remembrance  is  sweet  of  days  wandering  in 
charmed  places,  resting  in  wayside  cafes,  perched 
on  hillside  with  pergolas  twined  about  with  grape- 
vines, while  saucy  bacchanalian  faces  smeared 
with  the  purple  juice  of  grapes  were  peering 
through  the  vines.  It  is  good  to  sit  with  the  fresh, 
vagrant  winds  bringing  cool  breaths  from  the 
Appennines  and  odors  delicately  sweet  from  the 
breath  of  lilies  that  were  sirening  in  soft  tones  of 


'3SXT 


MEMORY'S 


POTLATCHES 


the  joy  of  life,  the  joy  of  living  while  we  partook 
of  the  wild  fragoles,  soup  and  spaghetti  that  is 
"cooka"  with  a  faint  odor  of  garlic  mixed  with 
other  mysterious  but  more  agreeable  odors,  and 
with  strange  little  relishes  that  come  and  makes 
one  indifferent  to  which  comes  first,  the  soup  or 
dessert.  The  food  is  not  so  important,  but  looking 
over  and  away  from  the  Campagna  westward  you 
take  your  coffee  with  a  saddened  heart  as  you 
;ake  your  farewell  of  the  simple  and  lovable  life 
in  Italy. 


Formulas  and  rules  have  no  place  in  the  glori- 
ous synthesis  which  is  creation  either  of  a  world 
or  a  flower.  We  do  not  know  why  or  how  it  is 
done,  and  it  is  well  perhaps  to  eschew  needless 
formulas,  to  abjure  useless  rules  and  burdens  ;  in 
so  doing  one  can  feel  young  and  close  up  to  some 
sort  of  a  dear,  good  world  that  is  beautiful  and 
worth  living  in,  then  one*  can  feel  there  are 
oases,  rippling  brooks  and  cool,  deep  pools  in  the 
drifting  sands  of  life  —  salaaming  to  the  real  or 
unreal  —  being  indifferent  to  either  condition. 


Some  of  us,  no  matter  how  we  strive,  cannot 
entirely  slough  the  skin  of  original  sin,  but  find 
shreds  of  it  still  hanging  to  our  best  intentions. 
Yet  surely  efforts  are  not  entirely  futile.  It  is 
worth  something  to  try  to  get  rid  of  the  old  and 
put  on  the  new,  whether  it  be  a  new  skin  or  other- 
wise. 


•MUM V_  jog 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 


Equality. 

Equality  of  opportunity  and  of  pleasure  with 
men  seems  to  be  the  cry  of  the  twentieth  century 
woman.  The  voice  of  the  church  that  was  un- 
questioned in  by-gone  times  is  not  heeded  now, 
and  even  the  echo  is  lost  in  the  social  revolution 
that  has  enabled  women  to  obliterate  rules  and 
customs  that  were  made  for  women  only.  A  so- 
cial revolution  that  has  permitted  her  to  spurn 
the  old  regime  and  accept  the  present  and  saner 
age  of  logic  wherein  she  claims  the  right  to  think 
for  herself  and  in  the  logical  standard  of  conduct 
that  is  not  blinded  by  past  rules  and  customs  she, 
with  open  eyes  and  unbiased  mind,  wends  her 
way  bravely  along.  Feeling  in  the  eyes  of  a  just 
God  there  is  no  dividing  line — that  wrong  is 
wrong — regardless  of  sex — knowing,  too,  that  man 
has  had  a  mistaken  idea  of  his  importance  and  has 
taken  upon  himself  in  ages  past  the  right  to  do 
as  he  wished,  living  according  to  man  made  laws 
and  customs,  claiming  because  of  them,  if  he 
chose  to  do  wrong — being  a  man — it  was  right  to 
do  so. 


—  104  — 


MEMORY'S          POTLATCHES 


Strive  to  be  worthy  of  the  place  the  gods  have 
assigned  you. 

Strive  to  help  others  and  lighten  the  shadows 
that  enwrap  them. 

Strive  to  make  memories  of  deeds  done,  step- 
ping stones  to  a  higher  and  better  existence ;  and 
you  will  not  only  be  better  and  happier, — but  will 
help  the  world  and  make  it  all  the  more  livable 
and  lovable  because  you  have  lived. 


'I  drifted  content  on  the  still  lagoon, 

In  a  shallow  craft  that  was  rudely  wrought, 
Till  I  heard  one  day  the  luring  rune, 

That  a  vagrant  wind  from  the  ocean  brought. 
And  never  again  could  I  slowly  drift, 

And  never  again  could  I  feel  content, 
Till  I  sailed  away  on  the  current  swift, 

And  learned  what  the  song  of  the  ocean  meant. ' ' 


- '  •..' ~- -. 

-^•••KMH^^MZ: 


—  105  — 


MEMORY'S         POTLATCHES 


The  Ocean's  Spell. 

I  have  sailed  and  know  the  otfean  well, 

Felt  its  troubled  fury  when  waves  beat  high ; 

Knew  its  moods,  its  strength  and  wondrous  spell, 
Its  angry  defiance  and  its  softest  sigh.  *  *  *  * 


I  have  heard  the  winds  moaning,  sobbing  far 
above  me  in  the  ship's  rigging,  felt  the  ocean's 
breeze  and  its  gentle  little  pats,  heard  it  croon 
and  whisper  while  watching  the  red  wine  of  sun- 
sets splashed  like  crushed  heart's  blood  against  a 
dull  gray  sky.  I  have  heard  the  song,  faintly 
sweet,  like  the  soft  tinkle  of  bells,  announcing  the 
elevation  of  the  Host.  I  have  learned  the  ocean's 
wordless  tune,  its  call,  its  power,  its  force  that 
tempts,  compels  one  to  answer,  to  respond  without 
power  to  resist  its  fascination  and  its  enthrall- 
ments.  *  *  *  * 

I  have  learned  the  song,  I  know  what  it  meant — 
And  the  Viking's  spirit  holds  me  fast, 

I  know  in  my  heart  the  message  sent, 
The  song  and  music  while  life  shall  last 

Will  sweeten  each  day  and  brighten  each  night. 

But  I  listened  too  long  to  the  ocean's  rune, 
And  floated  too  far  on  its  currents  swift; 

Too  far  from  the  peace  of  the  old  lagoon, 
Too  far  to  return  and  dream  and  drift. 


—  106  — 


MEMORY'S 


POTLATCHES 


An  Empty  Boat. 

Lying  in  dumb  desolation  on  the  golden- 
rimmed  sands  in  the  yellow  gleam  of  sunsets. 
Silent,  in  the  silver  nights  when  the  mother  moon 
drenches  it  in  a  sheen  of  light.  Resting,  with  its 
prow  pointing  to  the  foolish  waves  leaping  up 
trying  to  kiss  the  moon.  Quiet,  with  its  sub- 
merged anchor  waiting  for  the  day  when  the 
sands  shall  loose  their  seal. 

It  is  only — 

An  empty  boat  left  on  Life's  ford, 
Its  garnered  sheaves  lost  overboard, 

The  sheaves  of  joy,  of  love  and  pride, 
Held  fast  by  Memory's  restless  tide. 


—  107  — 


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JUL  1  »'?4 


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